Triangle
by KateTheDreadful
Summary: Post-S3: When Sherlock returns to John's life, drawn out of hiding by a cryptic summons from a mysterious enemy, they find their relationship has suddenly become very...complicated. As they work to solve the mystery, more friends and colleagues become entangled in a web of dark secrets, love triangles, and danger. Multiple POVs, mystery/romance, first fic I've ever written.
1. Chapter 1: Why should I?

"You're not dead." John wasn't sure if it was a statement, a question, or a prayer.

"Obviously."

"You've been alive."

"That's correct."

"For three years, you've pretended to be dead."

"John, please stop stating the obvious. Yes, I am alive. I'm here. I never died. It was all a ruse."

A few moments passed, and a terrible silence fell over them. John stood like a statue, refusing to move, to betray any kind of emotion. Because he wasn't sure what he'd be betraying. Rage? Despair? Joy? He didn't know what to feel, much less what to say. And so the silence lingered as Sherlock watched him, equally stony and silent, from across the flat they had once shared.

"How?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"I have my ways." Sherlock replied, with that mysterious "I'm so clever" grin just twitching around the corner of his lips. _Oh, he wants to explain_, John thought to himself, _because he's so damn proud of it, of his ingenious scheme._ But no, John wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He wasn't going to beg for an explanation. Sherlock wanted him to pry, the smug bastard. And he wasn't going to.

"You could have told me," he said instead. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction as that damn smile faded from Sherlock's face. "That you were alive, I mean."

"I'm telling you now," said Sherlock, deadpan. "Isn't that good enough?"

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. The arrogance of that question, the sheer, unleaded absurdity…how could he not laugh when the great Sherlock Holmes asked such an incredibly stupid question.

"No, Sherlock, it really isn't. Nothing is good enough, not after what you've done to me." He heard the venom in his own voice and immediately regretted it, as just a flicker of hurt flashed across Sherlock's face.

"John, please," the other man looked around as he spoke, avoiding eye contact "I understand that you're hurt, but let me explain. I did it to protect you…"

"Protect me?" John knew he shouldn't have shouted. He saw the change in Sherlock's expression, as though he'd just been struck across the face. And yet, he couldn't stop himself. After all that struggling to find the right words, to figure out what to say next, suddenly he couldn't shut up.

"You wanted to protect me? As in, spare me pain? Keep me from harm?" Sherlock moved as if to reply, but John didn't give him the chance. "Because let me tell you, right now, Sherlock Holmes; there is nothing you, or Moriarty, or anyone else in the world could have done to hurt me more than what you did!" Sherlock stared at him, incredulously. _He has no idea, _John thought. And that just made him feel even angrier, even as he tried not to let Sherlock see the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

"You were my best friend. You were the most important person in the world to me, you were my _life, _and you made me watch you jump off a roof. I had to live with that! Every time I closed my eyes I saw you lying on the sidewalk with your face bashed in. Did you ever think of that? Of what you'd be doing to me? You left me alone and confused and...and..." He paused, took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure, bringing his voice back down to a normal speaking tone, but he didn't feel any less angry. "And you lied to me," he continued. "I think that's what hurt the most. It was insulting, Sherlock. It was more insulting than all the horrible, horrible things you've said and done to me. It cut deeper than every little comment you've ever made about my intelligence, all the little head-games you've played with me. The thing that hurt the most was that somehow, you believed that you could ever make me hate you."

For a moment, Sherlock looked puzzled, then a sudden understanding crept across his face. "John," he said quietly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand, "I'm so sorry. Please, you have to forgive me..." And for some reason he couldn't explain even to himself, that sincere apology only made John angrier. _How dare he come back here and start acting like a human being? _he thought. With a sudden outburst of anger, John grabbed him by the collar of that damn coat and pulled his stupid face down to his level, as a flicker of shock and pain shot across Sherlock's crumbling stone mask.

"Why should I?" John hissed, "after all this time, after all the hell I've been through, give me one good reason why I should forgive you, you arrogant, obnoxious, lying, deceiving bastard!" He shouted again at the end, shaking Sherlock with every angry word. "You think you can just send me a bloody text message to say you're not dead and walk back into my life? You think if you can just make a sad face at me and it'll all be okay? Things'll just go back to normal? Oh, I can't wait to hear how you justify this. Go on, then! Tell me why I shouldn't just let you go on being dead!"

"Because I can't go on living without you."

They stood in silence for one terrible moment. John stared in amazement at Sherlock, who actually looked as though he were on the verge of tears. He didn't know what he'd expected Sherlock to say, but it was nothing like that. Maybe "I need your help" or "I'm your friend" or something else he'd said before, but not that. He simply gazed at him as what he'd just heard slowly worked itself out in his head. He took in the sight of this man who he had missed so much, who had mourned so deeply for. He looked into the beautiful, blue-grey, life-filled eyes of the man who had died for him. A lot of things became apparent to John in those few horribly silent seconds. He couldn't form any real thoughts; no precise words, nothing articulate. And yet, somehow, everything was clear, Clearer than it had been in a very long time.

Slowly, John looked down at his hands and let go of Sherlock's collar, moving his hands to rest on the taller man's shoulders. He looked up again at Sherlock, who was anxiously awaiting a response. John breathed in, hoping the right words would come out when he released it.

"Yeah, all right then," he whispered, and, wrapping his arms around his neck, gently pressed Sherlock's lips to his.

John closed his eyes and for a moment, everything froze. Sherlock was obviously surprised, his shoulders tense and rigid, his lips cold and dry and unyielding. For a moment, John was afraid he'd made the wrong move. Then he slowly felt Sherlock's arms wrapping around him, felt him relax and give in to the kiss. For what seemed like an eternity the two stood, holding onto each other with a perfect mixture of rage and love, sorrow and joy.

Eventually, the kiss broke, and they simply held each other, faces close together, nervous but joyful smiles on each face. Then, all at once, the significance of what had just transpired dawned on John. And, he could tell by the look on his friend's face, Sherlock as well. With what he realized later was probably an unnecessary haste, John released him and stepped back, stuttering helplessly.

"Um," he managed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, carefully avoiding eye contact. John searched for words, but his head was spinning, as he tried without success to process what had just happened between them. He could see that Sherlock was having a similar difficulty, from the way he was desperately trying to resume his usual, expressionless guise. "I suppose we should…discuss some things…"

John paused, the emotional turmoil overcome by a sudden, small amusement that Sherlock Holmes, the great genius, the most amazing mind in the world, could ever make such an absurd understatement, and he almost felt like laughing again.

"No shit, Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2: It's not important

"So you did it to save us. Killed yourself to keep us alive, but you had to let everyone think you were a fraud or it wouldn't work?"

"Precisely," Sherlock replied as he looked around the empty flat. It was obvious that nobody had moved in to 221B since his "death." There were all sorts of signs, of course, but the most obvious indicator was that the smiley-face he used for target practice was still on the wall, implying that Mrs. Hudson had never put in much effort to get a new tenant in the first place. A further investigation before John had gotten to the flat revealed that a depressingly large amount of Sherlock's personal possessions were in boxes in the closet and the upstairs bedroom.

"I knew you were lying," John stated flatly.

"Pardon?" Sherlock regarded John carefully, trying to determine what was going on in his head. He'd been trying to figure out what the doctor was thinking for the past several minutes as he'd been explaining what had happened on Bart's rooftop several years ago, but he couldn't get a read on John. He'd been struggling already, but after that kiss, he felt as though his mind was overflowing with unfamiliar thoughts and emotions, and there was no room in his brain for observation or analysis. The entire situation made him extremely uncomfortable.

"I knew you weren't a fraud," John continued. "You may have duped everyone else on the planet, but you could never convince me that you made it all up. The only time you ever lied to me—well, really lied to me—was that day, and I saw right through it." He said it with a sort of pride that he was the only one who wasn't fooled.

_You can't fool him, _he thought. _All the evidence was there, he heard it from your own mouth, and yet he never, ever stopped believing in you. What do you say to that? How do you show him how much that really does mean to you? What do people say? _

"Thank you" was the best he could do, in the end. And yet, John smiled, just briefly, and Sherlock was surprised by just how much better that made him feel.

"You're welcome." John grinned, laughing just a bit, his cold face lighting up, and once again Sherlock felt accepted. He allowed himself a smile, and for a moment things were all right. Then John's mobile went off, breaking the moment. Sherlock felt the confusion settling back in as John looked at the ringing phone and expression of extreme distress replaced his smile, though he hid it quickly.

"Who is that?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing," John said just a bit too quickly. "Sorry—I mean…well, it's not important." He ignored the call and nervously put it back in his pocket.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked, sensing that something was wrong. John looked extremely uncomfortable.

_That call upset him, _Sherlock thought. _It wasn't "nothing" or he wouldn't have been so quick to say it was. All he saw was who it was from, so it's someone he's fairly close to or he wouldn't be able to determine the call's purpose so quickly to deem it unimportant. He feels a bit guilty for putting it away but I'm taking precedent. Taking into account his apparent priorities in the past...Girlfriend. _For a moment Sherlock felt pleased with himself for the deduction, but it vanished quickly. _He has a girlfriend. He just kissed me…but he has a girlfriend. Oh, this is going to get complicated...  
><em>

John spoke again, drawing Sherlock's mind back to earth.

"Look, Sherlock, why have you come back? Why now, I mean?" He sounded upset again, to Sherlock's dismay. "You left to protect me—and the others—right? So if you're back does that mean we're in danger?" Suddenly fear was added to the mixed feelings he was displaying. "Is Moriarty really dead?"

In spite of himself, Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "He blew the back of his head off with a handgun in his mouth, John. I highly doubt he's made a recovery."

"Yeah?" John snapped, his voice raising suddenly, "And you had your head smashed in on the bloody pavement! I—oh, god…" John stopped mid-sentence, stepping back and covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, no, I don't want to picture it…"

Sherlock was taken aback by this. Out of the blue, John seemed like a nervous wreck. It was almost painful to watch. Cautiously, he stepped closer to him, until he was only an inch or two away.

"It wasn't real, John." Sherlock made a pathetic effort to console him.

"Yeah, well, it has been for three years." John said shortly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, getting back to the point, where've you been all this time? Why are you back now?"

Sherlock sighed again. "I've been hiding. I've been moving around…keeping outside of the country, living alone, avoiding being recognized or noticed…"

"…Coloring your hair," John contributed, with a small, muffled chuckle.

Sherlock sighed, seeing that he was being mocked. He didn't think it was all that important—it was simply to deflect attention, and he had never been very good about maintaining it—but John seemed to think it was terribly funny.

"Hair color and style is one of the first physical traits people observe. Changing mine would help minimize the chance of me being recognized."

"Oh yeah, that's your cunning disguise, is it?" John continued to laugh to himself. "Disguise yourself as a ginger? That's brilliant." John laughed sarcastically and Sherlock frowned indignantly.

"Yes. Can we get back to the point, please?" Sherlock said rather tersely.

"Mmh-hmm." John coughed "yeah, sorry."

Sherlock sighed disdainfully, though truthfully he was relieved to see John laugh after that sudden nervousness a moment ago. _I'll do stupid things to my appearance every day if it makes you happy, _he thought, and then questioned why he'd thought it.

"And as for the why...?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated. There were several reasons, as a matter of fact, but right now he realized which one was important. Expressing his emotions was never a strong skill of Sherlock's. To be fair, he very rarely had strong feelings about anything. But at least this time, he knew what to say. He put his right hand on John's shoulder, looked into his eyes, and spoke very softly:

"I need you, John. In so many ways, I need you by my side again."

John stared back at him a moment longer, his expression stoic, then suddenly turned away. "Sherlock, I…um…"

He was interrupted by the mobile ringing again. Both of them sighed in exasperation as it managed to snap the building tension between them.

"I suggest you tell her you're busy," Sherlock snapped, somewhat more bitterly than he'd really intended.

"I don't need to—hang on," John snapped with an accusatory tone, "How did you know…" then he stopped, realizing the stupidity of his question. "Right, it's you." He sighed, seeming irritated with being seen through so quickly. Sherlock grinned briefly. _He missed it, _he thought, with a certain amount of self-satisfaction, then craned his neck slightly to see the name on the phone.

"Mary," he observed casually. Then, because his self-certainty was still not at one hundred percent, he asked "New girlfriend?" just to confirm.

"Sort of," John answered evasively. "Look, Sherlock…"

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?" Sherlock demanded. Something was wrong, he could tell, and he wasn't going to let that unsettling, ambiguous statement go.

"Look, it's not important…" John insisted

"You keep saying that and yet everything about the way you're acting is contradicting it. Who is she?"

John watched him critically for a moment, as the phone rang out. When he spoke it sounded as though it was physically painful to say the words.

"She's my fiancée."


	3. Chapter 3: What were you thinking?

John watched with a horrible sense of foreboding as Sherlock paused, his face, as usual, unreadable.

"Fiancée…" the detective finally said cautiously.

John swallowed nervously. "Yeah," he said, "We're, um…we're due to be married next month." _Or at least, we were, _he added to himself. _No, don't think that. This changes nothing. Who am I kidding, this changes everything! Oh, bloody hell…_

Sherlock stepped back and coughed slightly. "Congratulations," he said, with a transparent attempt at being casual. John regarded him skeptically.

"Thanks", he said quietly. He had no idea what he should say next. This was a bit of an awkward situation, after all. The uncomfortable pauses just wouldn't stop tonight.

"How long have you been together?" Sherlock asked, another sad attempt at feigning polite interest.

"About a year and a half," John replied with, he knew, equally false flippancy.

"Is that long? I mean, it's long for you, but…"

"It's enough," John replied, snapping a bit. He'd been told he was rushing things a few times, but he had just been so glad not to be alone anymore, he was not going to let the chance pass him by…_But that's not the point, right now, _he reminded himself.

"There are more important questions than my personal life right now, Sherlock. You've been dancing around it this whole time, so please just tell me, why are you here?" John was well aware of the hypocrisy in that moment—he was dancing around a subject he didn't want to discuss, as well. But he wasn't going to back off again.

Sherlock paused and looked John over carefully. John tried to determine what was going through that calculating mind of his, but of course, it was to no avail. Eventually, the taller man opened up his coat and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He took from it a large envelope.

"These have all been sent to me in the past few months," he said, handing them over to John.

John slowly opened the envelope, dreading what might be inside. He'd been thinking something threatening or dangerous, but the first item he removed did not appear to fit into either of those categories.

It was a greeting card, a ridiculously sappy-looking one that said "Missing you" on the front. Inside it said, handwritten in neat, flowing script "The game just isn't the same".

"That's cryptic," John observed dryly.

"Really? I thought it was rather obvious," Sherlock observed, genuinely surprised by John's lack of understanding. _Just like old times, _John thought to himself. In the past, any time Sherlock had used the word "obvious" he would be offended, but after all this time he had grown to miss it. He still frowned and raised an eyebrow in his traditional fashion, however. _He's going to try and make you figure it out yourself, _John thought. _Just so he can feel a little superior. He hasn't changed that much. _He reconsidered this for a moment. _Then again, he probably hasn't done this in ages, so you could just be nice to him...  
><em>

"Not to me," he finally gave in and spoke the truth. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"It's clearly a woman's handwriting, is it not? Think about the message for a minute. Who would send me something like this?"

"Irene Adler?" John asked, surprised, then remembered that Sherlock didn't know. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "She's dead. Your brother made up the whole witness protection thing, she's been dead for years…" It was then that he noticed the smug grin playing about the corners of Sherlock's lips. "Which, I suppose, you have too." John wasn't going to give up that easily. It couldn't be Adler, it just couldn't. And then Mycroft's exact words came back to him.

"_It would have taken Sherlock Holmes to fool me. And I don't think he was on hand, do you?"_

"You helped her escape." John said quietly, and for some reason felt a pang of resentment at this. Sherlock, meanwhile, blinked in genuine surprise.

"Impressive deduction, John," he said, and he sounded sincere. That should have made John feel good, but it didn't. He thought of the little games Sherlock had played with this woman, and now this message in his hand, and felt an inexplicable bitterness.

"What exactly is the deal with you two? With this letter?" he snapped, taking issue with this latest development.

"Are you upset with me, John?" Sherlock asked, his gaze scrutinizing.

"No, I'm not, I just want you to bloody explain yourself. This is taking way too long. So she sent you a note, that's enough to make you come out of hiding?" _And what happened to me wasn't? _he added in his head.

Sherlock frowned. "Of course not. I was concerned that she was aware I was alive, but that alone wasn't going to bring me back out of the dark, not unless she did something with that knowledge. But there's something else in that envelope, something I think you know about. In fact, I'm surprised you haven't brought it up yet. Or have you been avoiding it?"

"You mean...the movement...?" John asked.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," he said with a grin, obviously flattered by the whole mess. He pulled a few more documents out. They were pictures of walls with graffiti, papers posted to walls, various postings on the Internet, all filled with the same two sentences. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes-Moriarty was real."

"Turning up all over London, all over the country, and of course on the internet. Secret messages swearing my innocence. After almost three years, suddenly this explodes all over the place? Hardly a natural progression. Somebody _started _this, John, to get my attention. And with the addition of that note, one can logically assume..."

"Her. God, it should have been obvious…" He felt pathetic. He hated himself for not realizing it, for making the connection. It was so bloody _obvious, _and he couldn't even see it through all that ridiculous anger and pain.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. It's my best theory, but I don't have any conclusive evidence just yet. Let's assume, for now, that we are dealing with the woman." Either way, it didn't make John feel any better. "The important thing is, it drew me back into public attention. Not just that, it brought up the question of my credibility. People will start looking, start thinking about it…obviously, she wants me to come out of hiding."

"And you're playing her game her way." John said with a sigh, trying not to think about the stupid article. It bothered him less, actually, now that he knew what it was, but something else was upsetting him now. "You just want to play the game again, that's all," he said spitefully,"You got bored, you got a free invitation to play, and you came rushing back."

"That's not why I…" Sherlock began.

"Did I even have anything to do with it?" John asked, suddenly enraged by Sherlock's pretentiously skewed priorities. "Did you really 'need me' or did you just need an adrenaline fix."

"This isn't what brought me back," Sherlock said sternly, his face growing cold. "There's one more thing in that envelope."

John paused. The severity of Sherlock's voice alarmed him. He very carefully and slowly pulled the remaining item out of the over-sized envelope.

"I tried to leave it alone," Sherlock said with uncharacteristic softness, "I tried to resist the urge, I knew it wasn't safe. And then I saw this. I saw what it did to you."

The remaining item was a copy of a police incident report concerning an attempted suicide by one Dr. John H. Watson.

John stared at it stupidly. _Of course he knew. How could you honestly think he didn't know? _

Suddenly Sherlock was closer to him again, and his pale, delicate hands reached out to pull down on the collar of John's turtle-necked jumper. It had faded over time, but if you knew what you were looking for, the bruise left by the rope around his neck was still visible. John didn't like the way Sherlock was looking at it. And he liked the feel of those long white fingers on his neck a bit more than he was entirely comfortable thinking about right now. So he pushed Sherlock away.

"You did it wrong," Sherlock said quietly. "I would think an army doctor would know how to correctly break a neck."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time." John said a bit nastily, then choked on his words and looked down to stare at his feet. Sherlock was silent a moment longer, and when he finally spoke, the vulnerability in his voice unsettled John.

"What were you thinking?" he asked weakly.

_You were thinking how it wasn't worth it. It just wasn't bloody worth it. All the time you spent trying so hard to move on, to leave him behind, to get past the question, and they drag it up from the depths again anyway. You were thinking that even if they were fighting for his innocence, it didn't matter because they couldn't prove anything, Moriarty had done his job too well. You were thinking that no matter how hard you tried you would never be allowed to get on with your life, so why not just get on with your death?  
><em>

"I wasn't." John said instead. "Not rationally anyway. That stupid…thing, it just set me off."

Sherlock remained silent, so he continued to explain.

"I was doing well, for a while, you know. I mean, it was bad right after you…after it happened. I was an awful mess then. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat…I turned into you, I guess," he said, with a halfhearted laugh. "All the PTSD stuff came back, too, the nightmares and the tremors and everything. I couldn't function. I was an awful mess. It took almost two years before things started getting better. I started talking to people, having a life again. Lestrade did a lot to help me, and then I met Mary…" He stopped. Sherlock had been listening intently, but he had that look on his face. The one where he tightened up his lips and drew his chin in and tried not to show that he was upset. John had seen it before, if very rarely. And he had flinched just a bit at that last remark. John hurried past it.

"Anyway, I was finally starting to do all right. Move on, you know. And then suddenly there you were, around every corner, I couldn't get away from it, and I got _angry_ for some reason…and I just…" He paused to see Sherlock struggling even more with keeping a lid on his emotions. "I didn't know who it was, so I didn't have anyone to be angry at, and I turned on myself. At least that's what my therapist thinks," he murmured at the end, though he knew she was probably right on this one.

"I just…" John went on pathetically, "I just didn't think I could go on anymore."

"Well, you're an idiot," Sherlock announced calmly.

"Thank you," John replied, allowing himself to smile for just a moment, "that means a lot."

And then, because the universe truly can be cruel at times, John's mobile went off yet again. He felt the sudden urge to chuck it against the wall. Then he remembered something and realized why she kept bugging him.

"Oh, um, Sherlock, I really should take this, I'm so sorry." Sherlock glared at him darkly, and he felt compelled to explain. "It's just, they've had me on a sort of suicide watch since…over the past month, and I blew off therapy to meet you here and now I'm not answering calls and just…they're all going to worry."

"It's fine. I understand." Sherlock said, in a tone that suggested that yes, he understood, but he didn't like it. John tried his best to ignore that and answered the phone.

"Hey, love, what's the matter?" he pretended to be oblivious.

"John!" Mary's voice gasped with relief in his ear. "Thank goodness. You can't do this sort of thing to me." She sounded as though she'd been terribly nervous.

"I know, I'm sorry, but…" he began, but he knew he wasn't heard.

"John, you didn't show up at your appointment, you haven't answered any of my calls…I was starting to really worry. You can't do that, not now."

"Look, sweetheart," John said, and turned around so he didn't have to watch Sherlock scowl at his terms of endearment, "I know I scared you, but…look, something came up. An old friend needed my help, it was sort of an emergency. I had to go, I know I should have called but I just wasn't thinking."

"No, I imagine you weren't" she sighed, "Who's this friend, then?" she asked. She could be a bit nosy, he had to admit.

"You don't know him. Look, I'll explain everything when I get home tonight, okay?"

She paused a moment. "Alright, I suppose. I love you, John."

John hesitated. It should have come out easily. He'd been saying it for ages now, hadn't he? It should have been easy. But with Sherlock here, now, there were all these strange new feelings. _You're talking to your fiancée not ten minutes after you kissed your best friend. What the hell is the matter with you? _

"Iloveyoutoo" he murmured as quickly as he could, then hung up as quickly as he could. He turned back to Sherlock then, who had turned to gaze thoughtfully out of the window. _Well, _he thought, _no point in putting off talking about it any longer. _

"Um, Sherlock," he said cautiously.

"Mm-hmm?" Sherlock responded in that "I'm only half-paying-attention-because-you've-irked-me-in-some-way" tone.

"Well, about that…about my…I mean, what we…" he struggled to find the correct phrasing. _You know what you want to talk about, you stupid git. That kiss. That bloody kiss, you can't just act like it didn't happen, you started it, for Christ's sake…_

"You said they had you on a suicide watch." Sherlock said casually.

"What?" John said. A small part of his mind exclaimed _Thank God! A distraction!_

"You said 'they' had you on a 'suicide watch'" Sherlock repeated, turning around. "Who are 'they'?"

"Oh. Um, you know. Everyone, really…Mary, of course, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and even Mycroft…" He stopped after that last one and thought about it for a moment. "Please tell me you were going to let him know."

Sherlock sighed. "Not immediately, no. It can't really be helped, but I'm sure he's aware that you received my message." He looked around in frustration. "He'll be here soon. I didn't want to leave the flat if I could help it, but I am not prepared for a confrontation with my brother just yet. It would cause far too many complications."

_As if we don't already have quite a few complications here, _John thought.

"I need to get into Bart's…" Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, confused by this sudden rise to action.

"I need to get out of the house, and there's someone I need to talk to there. Seems like the logical destination, wouldn't you agree?"

It was, John had to admit. "All right, but how are you planning on getting in there? Your brother has access to all the security cameras and everything, that dye job's not going to fool him, or anyone else who knows you, for that matter. You'll have to sneak in. How do you propose to do that?"

"I know it's short notice, but do you suppose you could find me a body-bag?"


	4. Chapter 4: A bit of a shock

**Author's Note: **Thank you all so much for the praise for this story! I was really nervous and you have all shown me that I had no reason to be and I appreciate you all so much for adding this to subscriptions/favorites and especially for reviews. Also, thanks to my coauthor/proofreader AlyssaMeg for all her input, even the suggestions that certain inconvenient characters get hit by buses. Which will not be happening. You have all given me such a self-esteem boost!

Anyway, here's a new chapter in which there is a much-needed dose of humor.

* * *

><p>Molly had been having a very long, very tough day. She didn't want to check out any more bodies. The misery of it all was starting to wear her out. The death and despair didn't really get to her, normally. Perhaps she hadn't always been the happiest of people, but she had always been able to handle it, unless it was someone she knew, before. But it had just been a lot to deal with, these past few weeks. That thing in the paper about Sherlock…<p>

She knew it was a bit paranoid, but she couldn't help but be afraid somebody knew, and that they might come looking for her. She had the feeling she was being watched all the time, now.

And then there was what happened with John. It wasn't as though they hadn't all gotten used to worrying about him before, but he'd seemed like he'd been getting better and then…since it happened, she couldn't help but worry all the time that the next body on her slab was going to be his.

Especially when she was told the body was a suicide. Like this one. She breathed deeply and steeled herself to look at the body. _Jeez, _she thought to herself, _I haven't felt like this in ages. I think I need a break…At least it's the last one of the day._

She laid out her scalpels and other tools on the table next to her as slowly as she could, then unzipped the bag as quickly as possible. She stared in shock for a moment at what she saw. It was a face she recognized, after all…but no, it couldn't be…

Before her brain had time to consider what her eyes were telling it, the corpse promptly sat upright and greeted her cheerfully.

"Hello, Molly. Long time no-

She didn't think, she just reacted. With a screech of horror she grabbed the tray of instruments from the trolley next to her and smacked the man across the face with a resounding _"clang!" _

"OUCH!" the man exclaimed and quickly raised a hand to his head, groaning in pain slightly.

Molly stared in disbelief. It was him, alright. His hair was different for some reason and he looked a bit thinner, if that was possible, but it was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, sitting on her autopsy table. He even had on the coat and the scarf.

"Sherlock?" she asked, still shocked. _You knew he was alive, _she reminded herself. But she hadn't expected to actually see him ever again. "Is it really you?"

"You were expecting someone else, under these circumstances?" Sherlock smirked as he drew his hand away from his face.

Molly couldn't do anything but stare in disbelief. She was still holding the metal tray she'd used to strike him in her hands. Behind her, the door to the morgue opened and John Watson walked in, out of breath.

"Okay, I'm here," he announced, then panted for a moment, obviously out of breath. "What was that noise? What did I miss?" he asked quickly.

"Miss Hooper was just demonstrating her ability to defend herself against the proverbial 'zombie apocalypse'" Sherlock announced with a hint of disdain. "Should the miracle of the revival of the dead take place in her morgue she is fully prepared to nullify it with the assistance of an aluminum tool tray."

John raised an eyebrow at him, then turned it on Molly. "That's one way to greet your long-dead friend," he observed wryly.

Molly dropped the tray and, once more acting without thinking, hugged Sherlock Holmes as tightly as she possibly could, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" she exclaimed, and felt tears welling up in her eyes.

"Erm, Molly…" Sherlock began, and, realizing how stiff and uncomfortable he felt in her grasp, she let him go.

"Sorry," she said, dusting him off slightly as she stepped back. She noticed a fresh cut on his eyebrow. One of the tools that had been on the tray must have flown up and nicked him. "I'll, um, get something for that…" she gestured toward the injury and began fishing through her supplies for a bandage.

"Excellent shot." Sherlock remarked, tapping the wound and regarding the blood on his fingertips with mild interest.

"Sorry," she replied, slightly embarrassed, "I just wasn't expecting…well, I wasn't expecting a cadaver to sit up at all and then on top of that it was _you _and I just…" Suddenly, she realized how silly the whole thing was, and despite herself she started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, frowning as he removed himself from the bag the rest of the way.

"You!" she exclaimed between giggles, "Turning up here in a damn body-bag! It's just…ironic, that's what it is. Too funny." She turned around and popped a small bandage onto where she had injured him. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she thought she saw him smile. "I mean, after all that work to make you dead and then you just…show up…And what on Earth have you done to your head?" He frowned visibly at that last remark. Some small voice in the back of her mind told her it wasn't funny, that she should be hurt or angry, or just something else, and she tried to suppress her laughter. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, John's voice suddenly cut through her laughter before she could go on blabbering.

"Wait, you knew?" he asked, and Molly could sense what was coming. Sherlock, apparently, couldn't.

"She _helped,_ of course," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "who else was going to do my autopsy?"

Molly wanted to tell him to shut up, but she couldn't. She just looked down nervously and waited for the reaction she could practically hear coming.

"You knew the whole time…" John said slowly, shaking his head in disbelief, "And you never thought it might be a good idea to…I don't know…TELL ME?"

"John!" Sherlock scolded, but Molly barely noticed his defense of her as she turned around, suddenly ridden with guilt.

"I wanted to tell you, John I really did, especially after this last time…" she began. Both men interrupted her at once.

"I'm sure you did," John began sarcastically.

"_Last _time?" Sherlock asked, confused,

"He made me swear not to tell anyone, even you!" Molly desperately tried to justify her actions to John.

"What do you mean, '_Last time?'_" Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't know how to tell you! I didn't even know how to reach him, I wasn't sure he even _was _still alive…" Molly continued.

"You knew the suicide was fake, that's the point, you could've said something! Even a hint."

"John, you've done this before?" Sherlock continued, incredulous.

"What does it matter if I have?" John finally paid attention to the affronted detective

"Quite a lot, I'd say," Sherlock retorted, sounding angry.

"Look, please, I…" Molly stuttered, trying to get control of the situation.

"Hush, Molly, the gentlemen are talking." Sherlock replied snidely.

Three years before, she would have done what he said, because she had been madly, stupidly in love with him. Three years ago she took all the abuse he threw at her because she thought maybe someday he'd finally reciprocate, and if she ever talked back she'd ruin her chances. Three years ago she thought he needed her.

Now she knew. He had told her how much he needed and valued her, and she had given everything he'd asked for, and now she knew she mattered. Which meant now, she had earned the right to speak up for herself.

This was not the meek, long-suffering Molly he'd left to clean up his mess three years ago. This was the new and improved Molly who was not going to take abuse from anyone. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" she snapped. She felt her heart rate pick up as both men stared at her in shock. _Oh god, _she thought, _what am I doing? _But there was no time to undo it now.

"He's right, okay? You could have left something, some sort of clue, or message. You could have told your friends, the people you supposedly loved enough to die for, what was happening. And you're right," she turned to John now, "when I saw you were in trouble I should have gone ahead and told you anyway, and I'm sorry." She meant it, too, but it was hard not to sound like she was angry, right now. "And you!" She whirled back to point a finger accusingly in Sherlock's face. "Do you have any idea how much hurt you caused? And I couldn't say a damn thing, I could only sit back and watch him fall apart. And not just him, but Mrs. Hudson and Greg and everyone! And I did it all because you asked me to, so don't you bloody tell me to 'hush,' Sherlock Holmes!"

Both of them seemed incapable of doing anything but stare at her in shock for a moment. Molly felt just the slightest bit dizzy after all that. Finally, to her relief, the faintest hint of a bemused smile crept onto Sherlock's face.

"Miss Molly Hooper," he said quietly, as if to himself, "Look at you." That seemed to be all he had to say, but coming from him it was very sweet, and she felt a blush creeping across her face. Not wanting to start that again, she went on with her lecture.

"Now, you've faked your death, you went off to God knows where for three whole years and then tonight you turn up on my table, I'm assuming you need something from me?"

"Right, yes, of course," Sherlock said, a slightly delayed reaction, as though returning from a daydream. "I need to see the records of my death, please," he asked, with an absurd amount of politeness for such a favor as viewing your own falsified death certificate.

"Um, well," Molly hesitated, "I've gotten rid of everything that wasn't completely legally necessary, like you said."

"I'm sure you did," Sherlock said calmly. "I still need to see everything you still have any kind of access to. Quickly, please" he added when she hesitated.

"Right," Molly said, "It could take a while, though, I've made sure to bury it all pretty deep."

"Take your time," John interjected, "After all the trouble we took to get in here we might as well stay awhile."

"Yes, how did you manage to…" Molly began to ask,

"The paperwork, Molly. Please." Sherlock interrupted, and she hurried off.

By the time she had found every document linked to Sherlock's death it was nearly half an hour later. She couldn't help but overhear a snatch of conversation as she approached the morgue in the otherwise silent corridor.

"Sherlock, I'm serious, why did we have to go to all this trouble? If this was all you needed you could have just sent me down here to talk to her, if it's so dangerous for you to be seen." She realized she was happy to hear that exasperation in John's voice. He sounded like _himself _again.

"I needed to speak to her face-to-face. It _matters. _I thought you of all people would understand that." There was a silence, and Molly was about to open the door when he spoke again. "And besides, my brain hasn't had a proper challenge in quite a while. A complicated infiltration plan was just what I needed. Consider it a warm-up."

"What, you mean like tuning up an instrument?"

"Precisely!" Sherlock replied cheerfully. "I've got a lot of hard thinking ahead of me. Best to give it a bit of practice before things get very bad." There was a pause.

"Do we have to leave in a ridiculously clever way too, or can we get a damn cab this time?"

"I think that would be acceptable, yes. Though I would prefer to leave the building through some means other than the main entrance, if that's alright with you. Come in, Molly," he added, more loudly. She felt surprised, then realized she probably shouldn't be, and walked in.

"Here you are," she said, handing him a folder full of less-than-perfectly organized files. "What did you need them for?" she asked.

"Someone knows I'm alive who shouldn't", Sherlock replied as he began speed-reading the papers, and she could have sworn she felt her heart stop for a moment. "I need to look these over for any weak points."

"I was completely thorough, I swear!" she said earnestly, "There's no way I made a mistake, no way anybody could have found out."

"We don't think it's your fault, Molly," John said reassuringly, "This person's very clever, she probably found out some other way. We just need to make sure there's no proof lying around."

"Oh…" Molly relaxed a bit, though not much. "Well, you're not going to find anything in there," she reasserted, just to make sure everyone was clear on this, "I was extremely careful."

"It would appear so," Sherlock said absentmindedly, apparently already done reading everything in the pile, and snapping the folder shut rather dramatically, "there's nothing here."

"So this was all for nothing?" John asked, ready to be extremely annoyed.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied with a superficial smile, "I got to see an old friend and have a bit of fun, and eliminated one potential source of trouble. Now, if you don't mind, Miss Hooper, John and I have a clever escape to make."

They walked out the door. Molly stood there silently, lost in her thoughts, until a few moments later when Sherlock suddenly came dashing back in.

"Molly, I nearly forgot something." He suddenly sounded very urgent.

"What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.

"There is a strong possibility that several dangerous people are already aware of my return to England, including my brother. Molly," he leaned in very intensely, and she suddenly felt afraid. "If anyone comes here asking about me, I of course want you to try and convince them you don't know anything." She expected him to add something like "which shouldn't be much of a challenge" but it never came, which only made her more nervous. "But," he went on, "If they threaten to harm you, or your family, or in any way make you truly feel unsafe, then I want you to tell them everything they want to know."

This didn't make any sense to her. "Why would I do that?" she asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"Because, Molly" Sherlock said, lowering his dark, deep voice as if imparting a terrible secret, "The kind of people who will come looking for me are not the kind of people who make empty threats. You were an integral part of my disappearance and I've done what I can, but there is still a chance you could be in danger. And I do not want anyone else to be hurt as a result of my keeping secrets. Do you understand me?" he asked, and she was shocked to realize how serious he actually was.

"Yes," she replied, "of course." But she realized as he turned and rushed out the door again that she was fairly certain she was lying.


	5. Chapter 5: Wrong again

**AN: **Hey all. New chapter, thanks for all the loves. Slightly boring, this one. Mostly setting up for the next few scenes. Enjoy. Also, credit to my real-life friend AlyssaMeg, since she came up with the Lestrade scene.

* * *

><p>"Did they investigate?" Sherlock asked, out of the blue. They were standing on the sidewalk near Bart's Hospital. It took John a moment to understand what he was asking.<p>

"Yeah, of course they investigated," he said. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Sherlock tapping his foot impatiently and looking around anxiously. Something didn't seem right. "But, I mean, Moriarty really knew what he was doing, they just couldn't..." he trailed off, feeling guilty about how badly the case surrounding Sherlock's death had been handled. "That jackass of a superintendent forced Lestrade off the case, and the new guys wouldn't listen to a word I said. It all sort of went to hell."

"I assume you were cleared of any guilt by association?" Sherlock still hadn't looked at him, but John saw something in his eyes and heard something in his voice that he hadn't heard since…since the Hound, now that he thought about it. Sherlock was scared? Doubtful? Something was very wrong.

"Yeah. Look, Sherlock…" he stepped forward and reached up a hand to grasp the taller man's shoulder comfortingly. "Is everything..."

"I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, shrugging his hand off. John was taken aback for a moment by this mood whiplash, but decided it would be best just to keep talking.

"Well, they never closed the case, but now with the whole "believe in Sherlock" thing they've started looking at it again, or so I gather. It sort of feels like we've gone back in time, to when it first happened."

"Yes, and some of you reacted more drastically than others." Sherlock said with an ice to his voice that John hardly thought was necessary.

"Now, look," he began, "I've had a pretty rough time of it since you've been…away, I told you that already, don't you start trying to make me feel guilty for missing you."

Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, then released it with a sigh. "You're right, that was uncalled for, I'm sorry."

What was wrong with him tonight? He hadn't been himself the whole time, of course, but John could hardly be surprised by that, under the circumstances. Still, something was very wrong here, and he decided that it would probably be best to let Sherlock's rather nasty remark go.

"When was the first time?" Sherlock asked, suddenly, his discomfort clearly rising. He was walking around now, as if looking for anyone watching them, or an escape route, or something. John was puzzled.

"Sorry, first time what?"

"Molly implied you attempted suicide more than once. When was the first time?"

John was confused by Sherlock's interest in the matter. "What does it matter?" He skipped to what he felt was more important at this particular moment. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, John, just answer the question." Sherlock was now standing facing the wall with the graffiti on it, leaning with one arm over his head on the wall. Between this strange pose and the urgency in his voice, John decided it might be best to simply answer the question. He didn't want to go into detail, though, so he tried to make it as simple as possible.

"It…it was just after the…the funeral. I went to visit your…" he stopped. He had been about to say "your grave" and then realized that it wasn't Sherlock's grave at all. Some poor John Doe was in that hole in the ground. Come to think of it, was there even a body at all? It had been a closed-casket funeral, of course. "The grave, and I talked for a bit and then I went home and I tried to off myself. There, are you happy?"

Sherlock seemed to lean heavier on the wall, letting his head fall forward for a moment. "Were there any others?" he asked.

John swallowed nervously. "No." he said, adding silently to himself _the times when somebody talked you down before you actually did anything don't count, right?_

Sherlock remained silent, then suddenly whirled around with a huff and gave one of those incredibly artificial smiles he threw out occasionally.

"Well then, how shall we proceed from here?" John couldn't figure out how to respond. He was still stunned by Sherlock's bizarre behavior and he didn't really care what they did next.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with you?"

"What? Nothing!" Sherlock replied, looking as though he'd been caught red-handed committing a crime.

"You're sure?" John replied, not believing it for a second.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "…but I think it might be best if I were to simply return to 221B for the remainder of the night." John certainly couldn't disagree with that. More wandering around and getting into trouble hardly seemed necessary. "I haven't spoken to Mrs. Hudson yet, anyway" Sherlock went on, "She was out when I got here."

John chose to ignore the implication that Sherlock had broken into the flat, and agreed. "Let's just take a cab, shall we?"

Sherlock looked around once more, as though trying to think of some reason to disagree, then rather weakly surrendered. "May as well."

"Have you spoken to Lestrade yet?" John asked, once they were on their way.

"Not yet," Sherlock replied without any sort of emotion. "It would not be wise for me to go near Scotland Yard just yet, especially if, as you said, they haven't actually closed my case yet." There was a hint of biting sarcasm in this last bit; that at least sounded like Sherlock. He was still staring out the window, though, not at John.

"I don't think he'd let them do anything to you." John thought perhaps the knowledge that he wasn't hated might cure Sherlock of whatever was bothering him.

"Really?" Sherlock didn't actually sound surprised.

"Oh, yeah," John replied to him. "I saw him just awhile back. He's not been himself lately either, not since this whole message thing. He keeps saying…"

* * *

><p>"It's gotta mean something!" Lestrade exclaimed, frustrated.<p>

The words, the "I believe in Sherlock" stared back at Lestrade as if daring him to do something about it. These words haunted him in his sleep and plagued his every waking moment. They were pasted all over the board in the Scotland Yard office, as if they were clues to a proper case. He was supposed to be working on a proper case right now, he reminded himself. But he couldn't get this stupid thing out of his head. Just like last time he'd had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. _The time it almost cost you your job, _he added to himself.

"It does," Andersen replied disdainfully from the doorway, "It means there's some crazy conspiracy nuts out there who've got bored. I've got that forensics report you're supposed to be looking at." He grimaced disapprovingly.

"I thought we were done with this," Lestrade heard Donovan whine next to him. "I mean, it's over! It's been over for years."

"Yeah," Lestrade replied miserably, "Well, there's a lot of things we thought were over lately that proved not to be, aren't there?" His mind flashed back for a moment to that night when he'd taken over the investigation of a certain attempted suicide…

It was like the universe was throwing Sherlock Holmes in his face, saying "look, he's back." _But he's not back, _Lestrade told himself desperately, _he's dead. So what the bloody hell does this mean? _

"If you're on about that Watson again," Donovan began, "you might as well come off it. He's just a fuck-up, and this Sherlock thing is just a stupid game and…"

"Oh, shut up, Sally." He'd had enough of her shit lately.

"Excuse me?" both of them asked, looking offended. Lestrade turned on his heel to face them.

"Donovan, John Watson has been through a hell of a lot lately, as have I, and we both have quite a lot of respect for Sherlock Holmes' memory, so I'd appreciate if you wouldn't insult them and me." Then he paused for a moment, and added something that probably wasn't necessary, but he wanted to say it. "And for all you say John's a fuck-up he seems to have a pretty solid relationship with that fiancée of his, which is more than anybody in this room can say." He felt a surge of satisfaction as they made a point to look away from each other with a hint of shame. Apparently Andersen's divorce had not been pretty, and he hadn't exactly traded up.

"Leave the report on my desk, Andersen, I'll look at it in a minute." As they walked away, he felt a twinge of self-loathing. That comment had been a bit counter-effective. His own marriage was certainly not in the best condition either. But that wasn't important right now, was it? He turned to face the wall of Sherlock messages again, and didn't really care if anybody heard him as he began to think aloud.

"What does it mean?" he asked the air. "What are you trying to tell me?" He sighed and rubbed his head. "God, I must be out of my mind. There's no way that you could possibly be…" he let the sentence hang in the air.

All of a sudden, he felt his phone vibrate. With yet another sigh, he took it out to view the message, and couldn't believe what he saw.

The message simply read:

**Wrong!**

**SH**


	6. Chapter 6: Something you should see

**A/N: **A little bit more setting-up stuff. Short and maybe a bit dull but I wanted to get a few more points of view in. Credit to AlyssaMeg as usual, and thank you all so much for your enthusiasm!

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson fumbled with her keys as she stood on the front step in the cold. She'd had quite a nice afternoon out with the ladies, and run some errands now. All in all it had been a nice day but she was quite tired right now and it was bloody freezing. She dropped the shopping bags on the ground so she could get the key in the lock and stepped in the door.<p>

"Let me get those for you, Mrs. H." A familiar voice spoke behind her and she turned to see John Watson grabbing the bags for her with a friendly grin.

"John!" she exclaimed, happy to see him smiling. "You're looking well, dear. What brings you here tonight?"

"Oh, I, uh, found someone who's interested in moving in." There was a mischief in his eyes that made her wonder what was going on here. That boy was up to something, she could tell. She turned to follow her as he walked past her into the flat.

"What do you mean, John? You know I'm not taking any new tenants right now!" Then she noticed the shadow of somebody else in the doorway, and a connection began to form in her brain." She began to turn around slowly as the familiar sounds of that baritone voice made their way to her tired old ears.

"Strictly speaking," Sherlock said, "This would be an old tenant."

It was a good thing John had taken the bags from her, because she would have dropped them in that moment. Her heart felt nearly full to bursting as she stared up at those familiar blue-grey eyes.

"She…Sherlock?" she stuttered, hardly believing what her eyes told her. _You're getting old, _she told herself, _you're starting to lose your grip, this can't be real, you've just finally gone out of your mind…_

"The very same, Mrs. Hudson." He smiled warmly at her, and suddenly she knew it had to be real. She hurried to him as quick as her shocked heart and her bad hip could take her and gingerly wrapped her arms about him. He returned the hug with a chuckle.

"It's so nice to see you again, my dear!" she exclaimed, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to say under the circumstances, yet it somehow felt appropriate. She noticed Sherlock shivering slightly as she hugged him, even with that big coat on, and realized the door was still open. "My word, dear, you're shaking like a leaf!" she pulled away from him. "Close the door, come in the warm, please!" She noticed John had returned from putting her shopping away, and was looking at Sherlock with an oddly suspicious expression, but she chose to pay it no mind.

"Where have you been?" she demanded as Sherlock grabbed the keys and hurriedly shut the door behind him. "What have you done? How did you manage this?"

"All in good time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock assured her.

"Why have you messed about with your hair like that?" she asked, again knowing it was a silly thing to be concerned with, but she just couldn't help herself. She was so used to that raven-black hair instead of this mottled red-brown.

Sherlock sighed, grinding his teeth. "Why is everyone going on about the hair?" he nearly whined.

"Never mind," Mrs. Hudson waved it off. "It's not important. Are you really planning to move back in?" she asked, imagining it was probably to good to be true, but hoping.

"If it's at all possible, yes," Sherlock replied. "I'll certainly need to stay here for tonight, if that's acceptable."

"Oh, yes, of course!" she replied enthusiastically. "I've kept most of your things, they're in a few boxes upstairs. Your skull, your little chemistry sets, your violin…" she began rambling on.

"You put my violin in a box?" Sherlock asked with a hint of concern, but she wasn't really listening. She was just too excited at this point. She honestly didn't care about how or why Sherlock had faked his death, or whatever it was he had done. What was important was that he and John were here. Her boys were back. John would be happy, they'd be home again, she'd hear the bickering and the noise and have to deal with Sherlock's mess again. Her boys were back, together again…a horrible thought struck her.

"John," she asked nervously, turning to face the short, broken soldier, "Will you be joining him?"

John suddenly snapped to attention from his scrutiny of Sherlock. "What?" he asked, caught off guard.

"Well, I mean, I know you've got a place with that young lady of yours, but I…" she left the sentence hanging. There had been something between him and Sherlock, right? What was going to happen now, if John got married? She knew it was none of her business, but she was a nosy old woman at heart and she knew it.

John suddenly gained an expression of horror on his face. "Shit," he said very quietly.

"Language, dear," Mrs. Hudson chided automatically. Then, "What's the matter?"

"Sherlock," John said, seeming panicked, "I've got to go home."

"We are home," Sherlock replied, puzzled.

"No, I mean…my other home. I've got to go to my…" he paused, looking afraid to speak. "Mary's waiting up for me."

Mrs. Hudson suddenly felt herself in the midpoint of a very tense silence, and it was not a comfortable place to be. She stepped back a bit into the hallway so she was no longer immediately in the line of fire should one side snap.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go." John then rushed past, refusing to make eye contact, and dashed out the doorway.

Mrs. Hudson stood with Sherlock for another agonizingly silent moment. "Well," she finally said, determined to go on with being happy, "Why don't you go upstairs and get settled in, and I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

"…Thank you." Sherlock strode stiffly past her and up the stairs. As he approached the doorway to the room, Mrs. Hudson suddenly felt a compulsion to say something she hadn't in far too long.

"Don't get used to it, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

* * *

><p>"Mr. Holmes?" The girl knocked politely on the door-frame.<p>

"Yes, Miss...?" Mycroft tried to remember what his assistant's name was this week. It was something with an L…Lydia? Lorraine? Lenore? That was it—Lenore. It was a challenge, working with a young lady whose name changed on a regular basis.

"There's something you should see, sir."

"Lenore, I have been dealing with that situation in Romania for three days straight. I am completely exhausted . I will deal with it in the morning."

"It's Lucille, actually, sir." _Damn,_ Mycroft thought. _Well, it doesn't really matter. _

"Though I quite like that one, I think I'll use it next. And I really think you'll want to see this right now."

"And what has brought you to that conclusion, Lucille?" he asked, still not convinced whatever she had to show him was anything worth looking into.

"It concerns your brother, sir."

"Yes, I am well aware that there's been some sort of underground movement proclaiming his innocence. I'm quite happy about it, in fact. But it's not terribly urgent."

"Sir," Lucille said politely, walking over and handing him a cellular phone, "This text message was received a few hours ago by John Watson from a prepaid mobile phone."

John Watson? Mycroft suddenly paid attention. He knew John had suffered something of a relapse of his depression and suicidal behavior of late. He took the phone, mostly out of concern for the one connection to his brother he had left. The text read:

**I'm not dead. **

**221B Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient.**

**SH**

Mycroft's heart nearly stopped. _No. It's not possible. There is absolutely no way that he could have been alive all this time and I wouldn't know. I could not be fooled so easily. _

He handed the phone back to Lucille. "Obviously this is someone trying to make a very sick joke. They are trying to harm Doctor Watson in his damaged psychological state." He found this angered him, just slightly, but of course that wasn't necessary, and he calmly contained his anger.

"Well, sir, I would agree, but there's something else." Mycroft crinkled his brow carefully. Lucille took a clicker out of her pocket and turned on the television screen in the corner. The screen showed a security camera feed—out front of Bart's Hospital, it would seem. John Watson was on the screen, hailing a cab. There was a man standing next to him, looking the other way. Tall, thin, in a long black overcoat, with a mop of curly reddish hair, tapping his foot nervously. Nothing unusual, as far as Mycroft could tell. Then the tall man turned his head to look around.

_No. _Mycroft stared at the face on the screen as it paused and zoomed in. No. It was impossible. That could not be the man it looked like.

But there it was. There was no mistaking that face. He'd known it his whole life, watched it grow and change from infancy into the angular countenance of his dear little brother. His dead brother was staring back at him from a security camera feed.

Mycroft's head began to hurt. He felt as though his stomach was doing somersaults, and his heart pounded. It was impossible. It would have been wonderful, but it was impossible. He rested his head in his hands on his desk and tried to force himself to breathe.

"Sir?" the girl asked cautiously.

"Get out." Mycroft ordered.

"But sir, what are we going to do about…"

"I said, get out." Mycroft didn't look up, but he heard her heels clicking as she left the room. He was alone, but he still didn't look up. There were security cameras in here as well, and he was certainly not going to allow anyone, anywhere in the world, to see that there were tears in his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7: You seem sad

**A/N: **You're all going to hate me for this chapter, because it's very fluffy and it's not, for the most part John/Sherlock fluff. That said, it is kind of important, and it's nice and short, so deal.

* * *

><p>John rushed in the door of his flat to find Mary sitting on the couch, watching the door intently. Her arms were crossed and one leg was carefully folded over the other. Her expression was cold. <em>I'm in trouble, <em>he thought. _No surprise there. _

"Hey, love. I'm sorry about this whole mess."

"What happened, John?" she asked sternly. John swallowed nervously. _My best friend came back from the dead, I kissed him, and we snuck into a mortuary. Oh, John, your life is never going to be normal, is it? _

"I told you," he said, trying to sound as innocent as possible, "An old friend's in town, and I had to help him with something. I'm sorry I didn't call but I just didn't want to be rude to him."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "And it wasn't rude to ignore me?" she asked, and John was relieved to see that she seemed slightly amused.

"Well, yeah," he admitted, "but I see you every day. I _get _to be rude to you."

She laughed, and John felt his heart rate subside just a bit. She wasn't angry with him, she was just putting on a show. She stood up, walked over and gave him a hug. John couldn't resist a smile at the sound of her light, musical laugh and the feel of her arms around him. Mary could help him relax no matter what was upsetting him.

She leaned back from him, keeping her hands clasped behind the back of his neck, but drawing her head back so she could look him in the eye. She had lovely brown eyes, with hair the same color, just long enough to frame her face which, if a bit plain, really was very beautiful. "I worry about you, that's all. You have to understand, the way you've been lately, I just sort of assumed…"

"You don't have to worry about that anymore." John assured her of this for what seemed like the hundredth time this week, but this was the first time he had said it and felt like it was the truth. He smiled at her as warmly as he could manage. "I'm all better now. Really." He gazed at her for a moment and then kissed her, feeling it was necessary. She responded quite enthusiastically, leaning into him with an inviting warmth. An invitation he normally would have taken, but as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he was reminded of how good it had felt when Sherlock had done the same. He terrified himself with that, and pulled out of the kiss very suddenly. Mary stared back at him with an expression of concern.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," John insisted. "It's just…it's been a long night." Mary raised an eyebrow quizzically. _That's adorable, _he reminded himself. _You think that's adorable. She's beautiful. You love her. Don't you? _

"What exactly happened with this friend of yours?" she went on, and she sounded suspicious.

_Damn, _John thought. _She can always see right through you. Isn't that why you fell for her in the first place? _

His mind went back to the day they had met. He had been minding his own business, going out for a walk to try and clear his head. He'd stopped to sit on a bench, just to rest, thinking vaguely of the day he'd run into Stamford in the park and been introduced the best time of his life. Suddenly this woman he'd never met came along and sat down beside him. He'd greeted her casually and then sat uncomfortably for a moment as she watched him thoughtfully.

"You seem sad," she'd said, with an oddly cheerful tone. "Why is that?"

"Excuse me?" he'd said, surprised by her bluntness.

"You look very sad." She leaned forward and looked back at him over her shoulder. "I don't like to see people sad. Will you tell me why?"

John had been taken aback. Her behavior was rude, inconsiderate, insensitive, presumptuous…just like Sherlock. He realized now it was that similarity that had driven him to reply.

"I've lost someone," he'd replied simply, "It was a long time ago, but…" he'd trailed off.

"…But you're still lonely," she'd finished for him.

"…Yes." John had tried not to let her see how very lonely he was.

"Well then," she'd said with an inappropriately cheery attitude, sitting back on the chair and swishing her legs back and forth like a child, "I think I'll have to stay here and keep you company."

John remembered how they'd sat there and talked for almost an hour, her babbling on about herself. She was nosy, she admitted it—couldn't mind her own business for the world. She had a talent for reading people, knowing what they were thinking, what their stories were. _Just like Sherlock, _John thought, though she wasn't, exactly—she understood feelings more. She liked people, she tried to make them feel better and wanted to believe the best of everyone. She worked at a school, a student social worker. She loved children; she could even be a bit childish herself at times, but in a charming, sweet way. Not in an infuriating, juvenile way like Sherlock. _Stop comparing her to him, you twit, there is absolutely no need. _But there were similarities, John couldn't deny it.

He remembered why he'd fallen in love with her. She was so positive about everything, so forgiving and understanding. All his stupid, screwed-up issues; she didn't care. She was always on about the basic goodness of people, how there must be a real, good person underneath even the most unpleasant exterior. _Just what you thought about Sherlock, when nobody else did. (Stop doing that! _he mentally scolded himself). She was determined to find the joy and the good buried in John somewhere, and eventually, she had. It was amazing the way she'd been able to make him happy again when no one else had.

He remembered the night he'd told her he loved her, how she hadn't made a terrible fuss about it. They'd just been out for a walk and he'd spurted it out, without any thought about it before. She'd laughed with delight and taken his hands and told him she loved him too, and that was that. For all his therapist said he still had his trust issues, it was just so easy to trust her, to love her, because she really just didn't seem capable of doing any wrong.

He remembered when he'd asked her to marry him, how she'd known what he was up to all night and could barely contain her gleeful anticipation throughout, how he'd gotten down on one knee and asked her, how nervous he'd been, and how completely delighted he'd been when she'd said "yes!" with a squeal of joy.

And then, at the end of his high-speed flashback, a fresh new memory came creeping in, of Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, his glittering grey-blue eyes shimmering from beneath where those dark curls should have been. He remembered the sudden urge he'd felt to just kiss him, how Sherlock's lips had felt against his—dry, trembling, uncertain, so unlike him normally—and the gentle caress of his arms, reaching down to surround him...

_No! _John's mind was practically screaming at itself. _No, no, no! You love Mary, you want Mary, you don't feel that way about Sherlock, you feel that way about your fiancée! Get a grip on yourself, man! _

"John?" Mary asked him, returning his mind back to the present situation, "What happened, exactly? Did everything work out all right?"

"I, um..." he struggled to determine what to say. John had never been a good liar, and while she was trusting, Mary wasn't stupid.

John's phone chose that precise moment to ring. John, unthinking, gently pushed Mary off of him and grabbed the mobile out of his pocket. The caller ID read "Mrs. H" and a horrible sense of foreboding came over John.

"Apparently not," he said quietly. He looked up at his fiancée. "Mary, I've got to take this. Like I said, I can be rude to you. Hello?"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson sounded extremely upset. "John, I'm so sorry to call you right back here, I know you've probably just got home, but he's in an awful bad way and I don't know what to do and you're the only person I knew it was safe to call and…"

"What?" John asked, fear creeping into him like some sort of disgusting creature, "Mrs. Hudson, slow down, please. What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," she said, and she sounded as though she was almost crying. "He's having some sort of fit, John. He's crashing about and making a mess and shouting and I think he's ill, and…Look, I'm so sorry to tear you away from Mary, but I think he's going to hurt himself." Then, very quietly, she added, "Or me."

John's sense of horror deepened. _You knew there was something wrong with him, you stupid bastard, you shouldn't have left him. But you had to leave him, you have a fiancée to come home to._ "I'll be right there," he replied, and hung up.

"John, what's going on?" Mary asked cautiously. John faced her and braced himself to tell her what she had to do. _She'll understand, _he told himself, _She always understands. That's why you love her, right?_

"Mary, love, I'm sorry, but it looks he still needs my help…I hate to do this and all but I just can't really leave him, he's having some sort of episode and I don't want to abandon…"

Mary stopped his mouth with a kiss. John froze as she did, and felt a small relief, if not much. She drew back slowly with an admiring look in her eye and a gentle smile on her face.

"Go. You don't have to apologize to me for being a good friend. Go on. I won't wait up."

John smiled. "Thank you," he said, and he really and truly meant it. "Thank you for being so understanding."

By the time he got to the flat, Mrs. Hudson appeared to have vanished into her room. He heard something make a crashing sound upstairs and hurried up. He was terrified of what he might find, but he opened the door anyway.

Sherlock was lying on the floor, his back propped up against the side of one of the armchairs. Several of the various items Mrs. Hudson had boxed out were strewn around the ground, but the real mess was Sherlock himself. His face was glistening with sweat, his hair matted down by it, yet he shivered and trembled terribly. His head was tilted to the side, his jaw tight as a vice and his eyes narrowed in rage. Despite the shivering, he had done away with his coat and jacket. His light blue button-down was layered with sweat as well, with some sort of stain on it John didn't care to identify. It was untucked and the top three buttons were undone to reveal collarbones that were protruding much too far. His shoes were off, to reveal pale, bony feet. In his right hand, hanging limply at his side, he held his violin. In the left he was holding his precious skull aloft at arm's length, looking for all the world like he was about to start reciting _Hamlet. _On that arm, the sleeves were rolled up, and John could clearly see quite a few very specific marks on Sherlock's pale flesh.

John might not have had Sherlock's ability for making clever deductions, but he was a doctor and from everything he was seeing it was fairly easy to make a diagnosis:

Drug withdrawal.


	8. Chapter 8: Look at me

**Author's Note: **Warning: Things start to get a bit more intense here. I don't really think it's too much but if anybody's sensitive, drug abuse/withdrawal, emotional meltdowns, that sort of thing approaching.

NOTE: I have not done any sort of proper research about drug use or withdrawal. Therefore some of the material in this chapter may not be entirely accurate, I really don't know. If anybody notices anything blatantly wrong, please feel free to tell me, but do so politely, since I have already stated my ignorance on the matter. Thank you and please enjoy, everyone!

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not divert his eyes from the skull in his outstretched hand. "John." He greeted the other man quietly. He tried to hold the skull still, but it was no use. The shaking of his hands was beyond his control by this point.<p>

"Sherlock…" John said, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock could see the other man straightening, his back rigid, fists clenched tight. "What the hell have you been doing?"

Sherlock did not respond immediately. He felt another chill run down his spine and shuddered again. He couldn't quite get his eyes to focus properly and his head was absolutely splitting. He turned his head and looked down at the instrument—if one could still call the unfortunate object that—in his hand, and felt anger at its demise rise up again.

"Wrong question, John." He finally spoke, practically spitting the words as he shot them forward with disdain. "It's what I haven't been doing for just a bit too long now."

"What sort of drug, Sherlock?" There was an intimidating amount of force behind John's words. He was trying to bully Sherlock into confessing. He had made it clear that he knew what the trouble was—clever, that, he had to admit—and he was trying to force  
>Sherlock into answering the question.<p>

Sherlock smiled to himself. "Cocaine, mostly" he admitted. "I've played around with a few other things—I get bored, you know—but I always come back to my old favorite." He tried to grip the skull harder, but his muscles weren't responding properly. Good God, his mind was absolutely reeling. So many _emotions…_

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John exclaimed, "What were you thinking? Why would you do that to yourself?"

Sherlock, with a violent impulse that he didn't make an effort to control, suddenly threw the skull in John's direction with all his might. To be fair, his might was not all that great when he was like this, but it shot past John and hit the wall with a very satisfying _thunk! _

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, "What the hell was that for?"

"I'm bored, John!" Sherlock screamed. His head was afire with thoughts and feelings. A hundred emotions slammed themselves against the walls of his mind in a desperate attempt to be released. Emotions he had shut down long ago. Pain, loss, longing, desperation, anger, resentment, self-loathing…they'd plagued him for so long, and he'd pushed them out of his mind with the aid of various illicit substances. But now he was empty. He'd gone to long and his system was running out, and he couldn't block anything out any more. And when all those feelings gathered together they formed one horrible, monstrous beast made entirely of rage. And he had no way of letting it out. Throwing things, punching the wall, screaming aloud, nothing was working. It just brought up more of it.

But now John was here. John, the source of all these emotions in the first place. John, who'd made him care, made him hurt, made him feel. John, who had kissed him out of nowhere earlier that evening and set off this emotional prison break. Now he had someone to be angry at.

He stood up very quickly, and managed to scream "Why do you think I started taking drugs?" before the resulting dizziness brought his feet out from under him. Everything blurred and he found himself slumped halfway over the arm of the chair with a strong desire to be sick. A jab of pain followed the nausea up from his stomach to his head and throat, and he made a faintly disgusting sound halfway between a gag and a cry of pain. He managed to steady himself and turned to glare in John's direction.

"It's your fault, John!" he exclaimed, and felt a shot of satisfaction at the "how-dare-you" expression on the doctor's face that he could see even with his impaired vision. "You made me do it!"

John strode towards him with a purposeful military gait, unimpeded by the limp, and stood over Sherlock rather, he had to admit to himself, imposingly.

"Me? How did I make you do it? How is any of this _my _fault?" John demanded angrily, his voice changing slightly as it often did when he was angry.

"You made me feel!" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs. John was silent, staring at him. And once again, Sherlock couldn't read a thing on his face, and his anger swelled. _Why can't I read him? _He demanded an answer of himself. _Why can't I see anything? Why is it that the one person that matters is the one thing I still can't see through?_

"You made me care!" he went on. There was no holding back at this point, not now, with his body shaking and sweating and his brain overflowing. "I never would have had to die if it weren't for you!"

"What are you talking about?" John asked. He sounded afraid. _Why is he afraid? _Sherlock asked himself, but he went on screaming nonetheless.

"Before I met you I was invincible! I was in complete control! And then suddenly you were in my life and I _cared. _I cared about what happened to _you _more than I cared about what happened to me! That's how this whole mess started!" He felt the threat of tears welling up inside his eyes.

"Sherlock…" John began, and this time Sherlock didn't even try to figure out what was going on inside the man's head. He drew himself carefully up onto his feet and did his best to tower over John, despite the trembling.

"Because then I didn't have you. Then Moriarty took you away from me, left me alone, which he wouldn't have been able to do if you didn't make me care about you so much! I was alone, and I had no one, and it hurt. And so I started this," he mimed shooting a needle into his arm, "because they made the pain of being without you go away. I didn't have to think about it, I didn't have to think about anything, I just had to shoot up and it all felt better. And I couldn't stop, because when I try to stop _this _happens"—he gestured to himself—"And I have to feel _everything. _Everything at once and it _hurts. So. Much._"

With a sense of humiliation he realized there were tears on his face. And now the anger wasn't at John anymore. It was at himself. Because, he realized, he was wrong. It wasn't John's fault. It was his own stupid, stupid fault. But he wasn't going to admit that, not yet.

"You made me love you, John Watson," he said, barely able to force what he knew were very important words out of his mouth, barely louder than a whisper through the tears he could no longer contain. "Look what you've done to me."

And that was too much, to finally acknowledge how he really felt about John, how he'd really always felt. To have that one emotion finally overtake the rage and burst out of his head and into his words was more than his weakened, drug-deprived mind and body could handle. He felt himself falling as his eyes blacked over and he passed out.

When he came too, after he didn't know how long, he felt strong, soldier's arms around his own shoulders. They were on the couch, Sherlock's long, gangly legs stretched out over the far end, with John sitting behind him, supporting his upper body and holding him close. Sherlock's head was resting lightly on his shoulder. He couldn't see John's face—hell, he could barely see the ceiling and that was what he was facing towards—but he could hear his voice, speaking to him softly.

"Are you all right?" John asked him quietly, and Sherlock could feel his warm breath on his neck. He gasped slightly, surprised at how good it felt. Another chill ran down his spine, and he couldn't tell if that was the withdrawal or the sensation of John holding him.

"What do you think?" he replied miserably. The flow of emotional pain had subsided just enough. The rage was gone, certainly, but it had been replaced by an equally powerful river of regret and self-hatred.

John laughed slightly at that sarcastic remark. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Don't apologize," Sherlock snapped. "You've done absolutely nothing wrong."

"You said it was my fault" said John, with just a hint of smugness that he was getting Sherlock to admit he was wrong.

"It was mine." Sherlock said plainly, and hoped John couldn't see that he appeared to have lost all control over his crying reflex. "It was my fault, John, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry for what I did to you."

"Don't blame yourself, Sherlock." John replied.

"How can I not?" Sherlock asked, and tried to sit up. His vision blurred again and he felt another chill of cold, and allowed himself to be pulled back up by John's comforting arms. "I've lost it, John."

"Lost what?" John asked, confused.

"My ability. My talent. I can't _see _anymore, John." He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and tried to fight back the tears that absolutely insisted on staining his face, but he knew he couldn't. "I haven't been able to read you. To understand you. I'm so sorry."

"You've fucked up your brain with cocaine, Sherlock. It's not exactly surprising that your radar will be a bit off."

"It's not 'a bit off!'" Sherlock snapped, furious with himself, "And it's not just since then."

"What are you on about?" John asked, leaning forward so Sherlock could see his face from his lock-necked position. Sherlock felt as though he was about to choke.

"I saw you at my grave, John. I was watching." He saw John's expression change as he began to understand what Sherlock was saying, and Sherlock found himself wishing he really was in that grave, instead of here evaluating just how close his own idiocy had come to killing the one person he cared about. "I should have seen, then. All my powers of observation, I should have been able to tell that my best friend was suicidal." He felt another sharp stab of pain and a shiver, and jumped slightly in response.

"Sherlock, that's not your fault."

"And I couldn't tell, tonight. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't gotten that message from Adler. I couldn't tell you were suicidal. I haven't been able to tell all night what you're feeling, what you're thinking." In a broken voice, he said what he'd been feeling for far too long now. "I've lost you, John." He sobbed, suddenly, and hated himself for the display of weakness. He'd lost John in more sense than one. Not only had he moved on, found someone else to be devoted to, but he was like a complete stranger to Sherlock. No, not a stranger, because Sherlock knew everything about strangers in a second. This was something he'd never experienced before. He was completely alone, and there was no drug-induced stupor for him to hide himself in this time.

"Look at me." John's voice cut through the agony in Sherlock's head. He heard the instruction, but he didn't follow it. He kept his eyes slammed firmly shut.

"Look at me, Sherlock," John repeated. Sherlock nervously opened his eyes, blinking frequently. John adjusted their position so that now Sherlock's head was resting on the armrest, his midsection across John's lap, with the shorter man leaning over him, looking intensely at him.

"Look me in the eyes, and tell me exactly what it is you've lost."

Sherlock gazed back into John's dark blue eyes, and, for the first time all night, he saw something very clearly in them.

"Nothing." Sherlock whispered it quietly, and yet it felt like a great exultation. A rush of a new, wonderful feeling made its way through the pain. He'd felt like this once before, earlier this evening, when he'd had his arms wrapped around John, when they'd been…kissing…he felt John's hand suddenly cradling his face, just as he had earlier, and once again he felt that mysterious chill run through his body, and now he _knew _it was different from those that came from the withdrawal. He reached up calmly, to place a still-shaking hand on the back of John's neck, and draw his face closer, and, shaking, trembling, but for new reasons now, kissed him.

This was different than the last one. Sherlock wasn't sure how—he wasn't exactly experienced in this sort of thing, though he felt slightly shocked by just how much he enjoyed it—but it was more fiery, more passionate. Their lips pressed together, at once forceful and gently comforting. They separated and then dove in again, and again, seeking out the warmth of each others mouths. John's hand slid down from the nape of his neck to gently caress Sherlock's partially exposed chest. Between their lips meeting Sherlock gasped in surprise at the sensation this simple action shot through his nervous system. He sighed as he realized it felt amazingly good. John's fingers gently rubbed against the muscles of his chest, his other hand on Sherlock's back, tenderly tracing the curve of his spine. Wanting to contribute more, Sherlock nervously let the tip of his tongue slide between John's lips as they kissed again. John gave a small, surprised murmur as Sherlock cautiously explored his mouth, and a slightly louder sigh of satisfaction as Sherlock put a hand on his back. He returned the favor, his hand sliding further down Sherlock's chest. Then he pulled out of the kiss very suddenly, and Sherlock knew why.

"God, Sherlock, you're…you're way too thin", he said, sounding very concerned. He rubbed his hand back and forth over Sherlock's ribcage again, but this time in a clinical, analytical manner, not a sensual one. Sherlock didn't like that. He was in the midst of an entirely new and surprisingly pleasurable experience of human contact, and he was not going to have it interrupted by John's sudden concern for his health.

"Nonsense," he replied, sitting up with the intention of pulling John back to him, but the motion was much too fast and too much and he felt a dizzying rush of blood to his head. "I'm fine…" then the nausea returned, and he suddenly whirled to the side to emit a violent dry heave. He would have been sick, but, as John had so cleverly evaluated, he was undernourished, and there was nothing in his stomach to regurgitate.

"No, you're not." John said forcefully.

"Really, I am." Sherlock tried pulling John down to him again, desperate for the kissing to resume. He found himself longing for it. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before—the warmth of John's body against his, the taste of his lips, his tongue, the thrill he felt when John's hands stroked him…He wanted more. He'd never been so physically or emotionally close to anyone. "John," he whispered, voicing his thoughts, "I've been alone so long…please…"

But John refused to be drawn back to his level. "No, Sherlock," he repeated firmly, "I can't. You're not well, and I'm not gay, or at least I haven't been, and I'm…" Now, suddenly, Sherlock could see what he was thinking. Guilt shot through his eyes. "I'm engaged," John said, as if he were just realizing it now. Sherlock felt a stab of jealousy at the woman who was denying him the one thing he so desperately wanted. And he did want John. Physically. Entirely. Immediately.

"Please," Sherlock begged again. He wanted to say more, but he was still so disoriented that he couldn't gather the words together to express what he was feeling. Preparing himself this time, he leaned forward and, as John pulled his face away to avoid another lip-locking, he settled for kissing John's neck tenderly. John sighed slightly and Sherlock whispered again. "I need you."

"I can't, Sherlock," John moaned desperately. "It would be wrong."

Sherlock sighed and fell back. There was no use. John Watson was too good of a man to be disloyal. "Fine," he said, "We don't have to do this." He felt John try to shift his position, and hurried to continue. "But please," he grabbed John's hand and the other man froze in place. "Stay. Just stay with me." He swallowed nervously, and nearly felt he would choke on his words. "I can't be alone another night."

John waited, staring into his eyes for a moment. Sherlock smiled a bit, for he finally could see what was going on behind those eyes.

"All right," John said, finally. "I'll stay." He shifted on the couch, back to the way they had been when Sherlock had first awoken, his arms wrapped protectively around the detective's shoulders, Sherlock's head resting gently on his chest.

Perhaps John wouldn't kiss him; that didn't change what Sherlock saw. _He feels for me, _Sherlock thought silently, _He cares just as much for me as I do for him. _

As if he heard Sherlock's thoughts, John quietly kissed him on the forehead and whispered. "I'll be right here. Don't worry."

It was not a peaceful night. Sherlock was still in the middle of a withdrawal, and the night dragged on and on as he suffered through the symptoms, all the while John tending to him like a sick child. It was painful and scary, but somehow, somewhere in the night, Sherlock managed to sleep soundly in John's arms.


	9. Chapter 9: Feeling better?

**Rather Long A/N: **This chapter's mostly fluff, not a lot of plot development. There was going to be more but the "John's inner thoughts" bit took up more words than I thought it would, and anyway it's late and I'm tired and I wanted to update.

* * *

><p>John woke up on the couch with a crick in his neck and a cramp in his leg. This was most likely due to the fact there was a tall, thin man clinging to him like a baby orangutan. His arms were up around John's neck and his body curled up in a fetal position on John's lap. It was a little bit cute, John had to admit to himself. He also had to admit that it wasn't very comfortable, but after the agonizing night they'd just lasted through, he couldn't bring himself to wake Sherlock up now that he was finally sleeping peacefully. And, he realized with a start, so had he. For the first time in what felt like forever, there had not been a single nightmare, be it of war or of Sherlock's crumpled body…he would have feared this were a dream, but dreams didn't generally include things like your arm still being asleep because Sherlock's shoulder was jabbing into it and cutting off the blood flow.<p>

John looked him over thoughtfully. The man was a mess, but that was to be expected, considering what he'd just been through. The thing that worried John the most was how incredibly thin he was. Had he been intentionally starving himself, or was this just his usual "I'm so busy thinking I forgot to eat" habit turned up to eleven? Either way, he made a mental note to make sure the underfed detective got some breakfast this morning.

Actually, that was only John's second biggest worry with regards to Sherlock. The first, of course, was a single phrase he had uttered the night before.

"_You made me love you, John Watson"_

Sherlock did not toss words like that around lightly, not even in a vulnerable state like the one he'd been in. Last night he had shown a wildly uncharacteristic amount of emotion. If he'd been in any sort of control of himself, he would never have said things like that, admitted the nature and strength of his feelings. Certainly he never would say he _loved _anyone.

John wasn't sure how to feel about that, in all honesty. He hadn't felt anything like this before, had he? Of course he loved Sherlock, he'd always _loved _him, there was no question of that, but he wasn't _in love _with him…it was the love between best friends, platonic and brotherly. Wasn't it?

_Yeah, _said a viciously sarcastic voice in the back of John's mind, _because the way you moaned like a girl when he had his tongue down your throat last night definitely said "you're my best mate." _

He let his eyes wander over Sherlock's resting form once again, and as he found himself admiring it, he realized it was time to stop kidding himself. It was time to accept that whether he had romantic feelings for Sherlock before or not, he had them now. It was strange, perhaps, but it didn't bother John all that much that the object of his desire was of the same sex. He'd never been attracted to other men before, but, he supposed, Sherlock wasn't like other men, in any way. No, while it was unfamiliar territory, what really worried him wasn't that he was falling in love with another man, but that he was falling in love with someone who wasn't his fiancee. It was that fact that was making him feel guilty and slightly panicked as he reflected on the events of night before.

Sherlock snored and twitched slightly, and John sighed. All these guilty thoughts continued to swish around in his head, but with Sherlock so endearingly held to him, it was difficult to feel anything but warm and loved. As he looked down, Sherlock's blue-grey eyes shot open. He blinked a few times, then lifted his head and looked around, looking somewhat disoriented. His grip around John's neck, however, did not loosen in the slightest.

"Hey," John said with a small laugh. "Feeling better?" he asked, and despite himself planted a kiss on the top of his confused friend's head. Sherlock gave a small murmur of contentment at this action, closing his eyes briefly and smiling.

"Yes, much," he replied, releasing John's neck. He stretched out so that he took up the full length of the couch, and positioned his hands behind his head, with his neck arched backwards in a way that inspired more sinful desires. _Make up your mind, soldier, _a voice in the back of his head chided. Sherlock seemed to sense this, and removed one hand to sensually run it across John's shoulder in a strangely comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry," he began, "for my behavior last night."

"Don't apologize," John quickly cut him off. "You couldn't help yourself."

"That's not entirely true," Sherlock replied, and his good old correcting tone was suddenly back, "I could have elected not to pick up a destructive drug habit, or any number of other poor decisions that led up to this, and there was certainly no need for such an excessive emotional display…"

"You don't need to apologize," John reiterated, not wanting to hear Sherlock take back anything he'd said the night before, "I'm…" He wasn't sure what to say. There were so many things he was thinking right now. "I'm just glad to have you back," he finally said.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm glad to be back," he said, and John wondered what _he _was thinking. Before he could ask, though, a rather impolite knock came in, and a young woman entered before waiting for an invitation.

John recognized her, he realized. He'd met her the same night he'd solved his first case with Sherlock, all those years ago. And her real name wasn't Anthea.

"Mycroft," he and Sherlock spoke at the exact same time. John glanced at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow at him, and he couldn't tell if it was impressed or confused. The girl raised an eyebrow at both of them, most likely a response to their rather compromising position.

"My name's Lenore," she replied ambiguously.

"No it's not," John replied.

"No, I suppose it isn't. But that's not important. You're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, yes?" She returned her gaze to the phone, always in her hands.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead," Sherlock replied.

"Yes," she said deviously, "And so's the girl with my real name, or so they say." That was a rather disturbing statement, in John's opinion, but it didn't seem to phase Sherlock. The girl whose name wasn't Lenore continued speaking. "There's a car waiting outside for you gentlemen. Please come with me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. Without averting his gaze, he slid his hand back down John's arm, grasping his hand and placing it on his own chest. "Might we have a few moments…alone, before following you?" He said the last word with an absurd level of suggestiveness that made John's ears turn red.

The girl looked at the two of them with a bemused grin. "Five minutes," she said suspiciously, "then I'll force you to come along. Deal?"

"Deal." Sherlock said firmly.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Sherlock jumped up onto his feet, not apparently aware of the fact that he elbowed John in the face in the process, and ran to grab his coat and scarf from their position flung over the back of the far armchair. He then began to dash about as though looking for something.

"What are you doing?" John asked, as Sherlock picked up a vaguely familiar pile of papers from the floor. The documents of death Molly had given them.

"Preparing," Sherlock replied simply. There was a bounce to his step and a tone to his voice that was very different from the way he'd been acting the night before. "Can't show up for a meeting with my brother with out a plan to set in motion." He turned to look over his shoulder at John with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. John blinked in surprise, even as he stood up to get his own coat.

"You seem to be feeling a bit more yourself," he observed wryly, suspicious of Sherlock's sudden cheerfulness.

"I'm feeling very well-rested" he replied, dashing over to the window to look out at the car awaiting them on the street.

John stared at him, incredulous. "Sherlock, you've just been through a violent drug withdrawal and an emotional breakdown. People don't just magically recover from that with just a few hours' sleep!"

"Well, I'm not people," Sherlock replied swiftly. Then, as he walked over to stand closer to John, his tone became quieter and more serious. "And I didn't just have a few hours sleep," he said meaningfully.

John blushed, and hurried the conversation along. "So, what are you going to do about this? Your brother calling us up, I mean?"

"Oh, it's not all that much of a problem," Sherlock said casually, picking his violin up off the floor. "I was planning on speaking to him today anyway. I was hoping to do a little more investigating on my own before speaking to him, but I suppose this might be easier, if a bit less fun. Look at this poor thing," he continued.

"What are you on about?" John asked, left in the dust.

"This, John" he thrust the violin in his face. That wasn't what he'd been asking about, but he knew there was no point in trying to control Sherlock's topic of conversation. "Mrs. Hudson and I need to have a little conversation regarding the proper storage of delicate musical instruments." He plucked a string and it made an extremely unpleasant twanging sound. "Just putting it in a box, what was she thinking?" He turned to examine it. "There are cracks in this, John, the poor thing has been left to dry and gather dust for far too long."

"I'll buy you a new one," John said, unthinking, to which Sherlock responded with a derisive snort.

"You couldn't afford to replace this. No, no, I'll have to have it repaired, but no matter, I can do that later." He rushed around and eventually recovered the damn thing's case, put it away, and grabbed the skull off the ground, rushing over to place it on the mantelpiece. John stood in perplexed silence for several minutes watching Sherlock behave oddly.

"Seriously though, what are you doing?" John asked as he continued to relocate various objects.

"I'm organizing my thoughts." Sherlock said it as though it were obvious.

"Okay, so, what…" he began, not certain where the sentence was heading, when the car horn beeped twice outside. Sherlock suddenly grabbed John by the wrist.

"That's good enough," he said, dragging John behind him as he bounded down the stairs, "We can go now." John didn't bother to protest. All at once, the familiar rush of Sherlock dragging him along on some outrageous adventure he didn't understand returned. God, how he'd _missed _this.


	10. Chapter 10: Fooled you

**Author's Note: **Whoa, obscenely long gap between updates, sorry about that readers. Anyway, thanks for all the support as always. I started a new fic, by the way, for any Whovians in the audience, that I would love for you all to check out!

* * *

><p>Generally, Sherlock enjoyed long car rides. Very little could actually be accomplished during them, but they were an excellent opportunity to think. He had enjoyed them even more once he'd begun working with John, since he could think aloud, as he preferred, to someone who understood what he was talking about (or at least, made an effort to) as opposed to cab drivers who simply stared at him as though he was out of his mind.<p>

In this particular instance, however, with Mycroft's rather irritating assistant and the driver of the car present, he did not feel comfortable thinking aloud, for fear that the girl would communicate everything he said to her boss. He could already see from looking over her shoulder that she felt the need to convey every slight detail to Mycroft. He glanced briefly at the text message conversation they appeared to be having.

And in what condition did you find him? –MH

Comfortably wrapped in Watson's arms—L

Come again?—MH

Sherlock coughed slightly to express his disapproval. He personally was not especially bothered—he was used to Mycroft knowing far more than was appropriate about his life—but he knew John would be appalled at this complete breach of their privacy, and he found his concern for John's feelings especially heightened of late. But, sadly, the girl took no notice of him, and he decided not to pursue the issue further.

And so they drove on in an increasingly awkward silence. Sherlock took the time to reflect internally on what had happened the previous evening. Despite his condition, he remembered everything that had taken place quite clearly, and one point in particular had become very apparent to him:

He loved John. Truthfully, he had suspected it for quite a long time. In retrospect, Sherlock realized there was a high probability that he had been in love with John all along and not recognized it. After all, he had died for the man, in a sense. It was not until he'd been in the midst of an emotional meltdown that he'd been able to prove his theory, though, the words from his own mouth the strongest evidence yet.

And yet he was confused. He felt he should know how to react to these emotions he was now so keenly aware of. After all, he had spent much of his life observing the way other people behaved, and so many of the deeds of human beings were based on love or lust. But then again, as he had said to John a moment ago, he was not like other people. And as a result, he hadn't the foggiest idea what to do about it.

Adding to the confusion was the unfamiliar desire for physical intimacy. He had never experienced such a powerful desire for human contact before. He didn't properly understand why, but even now, he wanted to hold John, to kiss him, to experience the tactile ecstasy of running his hands over the other man's body…he tried desperately to shake off that train of thought, but it remained, like a new addiction moving in to replace the old…he wanted it, desperately, and he didn't understand why…but no, their situation was too complicated. It would not be appropriate, considering the circumstances of their reunion. True, what was socially appropriate had never been of terrible concern to him before, but his situation was dangerous and complex enough without adding…whatever this was to the mix.

Sherlock eventually decided the entire situation was far too complicated to tackle at once, and that he would need more time to analyze both John and himself, and moved his mind to a new line of thought: Mycroft. He began to consider how to get as much assistance as he could from his brother without appearing to ask for it or readily accept it.

Sooner than Sherlock would have liked, the car arrived outside of Mycroft's rather oversized estate. The girl who called herself Lenore opened the door and instructed them to follow her, which they did in silence. John made some small effort to have a pleasant conversation with her, to which she simply did not respond.

She could have simply not heard him, in theory, being so apparently engrossed in her phone, but no, Sherlock could deduce quite clearly that this woman put on a grand show of being easily distracted and light-headed when actually she was very aware, organized, and in-control. It was obvious to him, of course. She never seemed to take her eyes off of the phone, but her head tilted and turned to respond to every sound she heard very precisely, and while she didn't appear to look away from the phone she clearly knew exactly where she was going. Her hands were interesting; her nails were short and functional, but they were still carefully manicured, so she was concerned with physical appearance as well as practicality, and those hands typed away at the keyboard with far too much calculated intent for a mere social butterfly updating her Facebook. No, those hands were typing very important, carefully worded messages. Also, she seemed to enjoy agitating Mycroft. All in all, Sherlock found himself gaining a small amount of respect for this woman as he spent more time with her.

She directed them into what appeared to be am extravagant and, in Sherlock's opinion, poorly designed sitting room. He grimaced in disgust. What was Mycroft doing, planning some sort of grand reception?

"You'll wait here. Please have a seat." Lenore said, then left without acknowledging John's feeble "Thank you" in reply.

Sherlock flopped down with as little grace as he possibly could manage onto the couch. John sat down behind him, looking around curiously. Sherlock considered for a moment how else he could disrespect his brother's home, and elected to put his feet up on the table. John glanced at him reproachfully.

"You know, after letting him think you were dead for three years, you could act like you'll be happy to see your brother," he scolded.

"Why would I put on an act for him?" Sherlock replied, seeing that his behavior was irritating his friend and suddenly remembering how much fun it was to drive John to scolding him like a schoolteacher. "Isn't the point of family that you can be yourself around them?"

The exasperated expression on John's face reminded Sherlock of the past, when they were partners and friends and everything was all right, and it made him smile and laugh just a bit. _John can always make me laugh, _he thought to himself. _He's the only one who can. _He smiled fondly to himself as he looked around the room.

John continued to glare, and Sherlock finally gave in and looked at him. "Relax," he said, "it's just Mycroft." John huffed slightly and avoided Sherlock's eyes. A devilish little thought popped into Sherlock's head at this point. "Well, if you think it matters…" he sighed, and turned sideways on the furniture to stretch his long legs across John's, and the doctor's face flushed with discomfort.

"What are you doing?" he stammered, squirming slightly.

"This seemed to help both of us relax yesterday," Sherlock observed, "I thought it might prove effective again." He leaned back rather dramatically, unable to resist the opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. He was successfully fulfilling his craving for physical contact, amusing himself by making John's face flush with embarrassment, and, if the footsteps he heard approaching the door belonged to who he believed they did, confusing his brother.

Of course, he was right, and craned his neck to watch as Mycroft stepped into the room, with a guarded frown across his face and a stiffness to his walk.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said, emotionless. Some small part of him, he knew, was happy to see his brother, but he would never let it show in a million years.

Mycroft remained stony and silent as he walked around to stand in front of them and regard them critically for a moment. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him as if to say "Well?"

"You, brother, should be dead." Mycroft said it with the tone of a parent telling their delinquent child that they should be at school. Sherlock decided to use this in his response.

"I didn't feel like going," he said, as deadpan as possible. Mycroft shifted his weigh uneasily. It appeared that, for once, his brother didn't know what to say. Sherlock allowed himself a small, cocky smirk, which seemed to be enough to spring Mycroft's speech centers back into action.

"I don't suppose you would be willing to tell me your exact methods for faking your death?" he asked, as though proposing a business arrangement.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, not bothering to be clever this time. Mycroft nodded thoughtfully.

"You might have told those close to you that you were not, in fact, dead," he said after a moment. "Just as a small comfort, you understand."

"That small comfort would have been little protection against bullets in their brains, I can assure you." Sherlock replied testily. Then, because he felt he ought to contribute something nasty, simply out of loyalty to their sibling rivalry, added "Do sit down, Mycroft, I'd much prefer you to be on my level."

Mycroft scowled at this last addition. "I assume by your return to London that whatever danger your associates were in is no longer present?"

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, bitter sarcasm taking control, "I came to see John here with every expectation that he'd be brutally murdered as a result." He noticed John blink, mildly offended, but continue to say nothing. Since Mycroft had not taken his earlier suggestion to sit down, he jumped to his feet and walked up to get right in his brother's face. "Now, was there something specific you wanted from me, dear brother?" he said, still laced with sarcasm, "Or might my friend and I return to the business we have at hand?"

"An explanation would certainly be nice," Mycroft replied hopefully.

"Well you won't be getting one!" Sherlock raised his voice now, increasing the intensity of his words. What had happened was largely Mycroft's doing, and he was not going to give his brother the satisfaction of knowing exactly what had gone on at the time of his supposed death. He turned his back and began strutting about the room. There was a short silence as he walked over to stare out a window.

"I missed you."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. _That _he had not been expecting. Of course, he'd imagined that his brother may have been negatively affected by his loss, but for cold, calculating Mycroft to _admit _he had feelings of mourning for Sherlock was a complete surprise.

"I know." Sherlock lied through his teeth a moment later. Mycroft coughed uncomfortably.

"I would be happy," he continued, "to see you returned to your former lifestyle, whatever your reasons for departing from and returning to it may be. As your brother, if there is any way in which I may be of assistance in your transition back to the public eye, I would be entirely willing to provide my services."

Sherlock turned again to look back at his brother. He felt as though he should say something rude or unappreciative. That was always how it had been with Mycroft; neither of them ever expressed any fondness for the other, neither gave nor accepted kindness, just hatred and disdain. But, as Sherlock was realizing more and more rapidly, nothing was the same anymore. Perhaps his intense rivalry with Mycroft would have to be relaxed slightly for the time being if things were ever to return to normal. He took out the papers that he had gotten from Molly and outstretched his hand, expecting Mycroft to take it from him.

"All public records of my life and death will have to be modified," he said, still careful not to grant his brother a "thank you" or any other gesture of appreciation. Simply accepting his help was a grand enough gesture as it was. "I'm certain you have people who can handle that. Here's a head start." He waved the pages around obnoxiously, refusing to step forward until Mycroft eventually stepped forward and snatched them out of his hand.

"Is that all you need?" Mycroft asked politely, but through clenched teeth.

"From you, certainly." Sherlock replied.

"Um, Sherlock?" John finally piped up, and Sherlock turned to face him. "What about that other thing?"

_Adler, he means, _Sherlock thought. "No, John," he said aloud, "Of course not. I need something to entertain myself while he does all the boring jobs." He pretended to ignore Mycroft's vicious scowl.

From what he could see, this little encounter had reached its conclusion. "Goodbye, Mycroft," he said as he started towards the door. "It really was rather nice to see you again. Come along, John," he added as he realized the doctor was not following on his heels. When he did not follow the command, he turned around to stare at John expectantly.

"See them out, please," Mycroft waved a hand at his assistant and let them be on their way.

Sherlock watched Not-Lenore curiously as she accompanied them back out to the car, scanning her for no real reason other than for his own amusement.

"Does Mycroft know about the sort of games you're playing?" he asked ambiguously after a moment, more to get a reaction based on his impersonal scanning ability than out of any actual interest in her business."

"He doesn't especially care" she replied, completely and utterly unfazed. Sherlock was mildly impressed. Of course, she had most likely been told what to expect of him, and it had been a rather vague observation, but still.

"Interesting," he observed. He stopped her. "I think we know where we're going, miss. Come on, John, we have a busy day ahead of us."

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2: <strong>I dunno why Mycroft's assistant is getting so much character development. For some reason she's just fun to write! Whatever!


	11. Chapter 11: Phonetag

Lestrade lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He'd been doing this on and off for the past seven hours. When he wasn't doing that, he was staring at the wall where there was an identical twin to his "Sherlock wall" from the Scotland Yard office. Occasionally he would take a break to pace frantically and try to convince himself that he wasn't insane, but then he'd realize he was talking aloud and therefore proving himself wrong, and then he'd go back to staring at various parts of his home. And now and then he'd stare at the impossible message on his mobile phone, and feel even more lost.

He'd left Andersen's forensics report untouched last night and gone straight home. He had thought about showing them the message, but he knew what they'd all say, and he didn't want to hear it—that he was crazy, paranoid, that he needed to let it go—because he knew they were probably right and he didn't want to be reminded. He'd rushed back to his flat and begun this chain of staring at the walls and the ceiling and his phone, all the while trying not to believe what every instinct was telling him.

Lestrade covered his face with his hands and exhaled deeply. He was just overstressed, he told himself. Or overworked, or overtired, or something; the point was that he was losing his mind. He looked back at his mobile again. The message, taunting him in so many ways, stared back at him. He'd thought about replying to it, many times, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He wasn't even sure it was real; he was that seriously concerned for his sanity. But, now that he thought about it, there was one real number he could call…

* * *

><p>"So, what exactly are we going to be so busy with?" John asked as they walked down a busy London street some time after being returned from Mycroft. Sherlock hesitated to reply.<p>

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Sherlock admitted calmly. "I've come home, made a show of myself—more than I'd have liked to, in fact. Now it's time to see how my opponent responds." There was an eagerness in his voice that sparked a glint of irritation in John.

"So we're busy waiting, is that it?" he asked, letting it show.

"Oh, don't worry, it won't be for long." Sherlock looked over his shoulder with an artificial grin. "In the meantime, I thought perhaps we might..." he was cut off by the sound of John's phone ringing, and his fake smile faded into genuine irritation. They both stopped short.

"It's Lestrade," John said, surprised, having expected it to be Mary.

"Don't answer it," Sherlock commanded.

"It could be important," John began to argue, but the look on Sherlock's face told him there wasn't any point. He set the mobile to silent—he wouldn't get to take any calls for a while, anyway. "Never mind. You were saying something?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Something seemed to have caught his attention, and he was looking intently at whatever it was over John's shoulder. John turned to try and see what it was, but didn't notice anything unusual. He turned back to Sherlock. "You okay?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head slightly and seemed to remember he was there.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine, sorry. I just...thought I saw..." he looked suspiciously in the same direction one more time, then shrugged and turned to keep walking down the street.

After a pause, John remembered something he'd meant to do. "Well, if we're just passing the time, care for some breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, shame. I am, let's go."

* * *

><p>Lestrade gave serious thought to throwing the mobile at the wall. He managed to restrain himself only by remembering that if he did, he'd lose any proof that he'd ever received a message from a dead man. After three rapid-fire unanswered calls to John Watson's mobile he resorted to text messaging.<p>

**Have you gotten any strange messages?**

A few moments later:

**Anything weird at all, even?**

He waited, accounting for John's slow typing speed, for a reply, but it never came, and so Lestrade gave up trying to be vague:

**OK, don't have a fit or anything, but I think I just got a text from Sherlock. **

He tried another approach and called Watson's home number. A tired-sounding woman answered.

"Hello?" Mary Morstan said groggily. He feared he may have just woken her up.

"Yes, hi," Lestrade began, trying to sound as politely conversational as possible. The last time he had spoken to the future Mrs. Watson had been under some fairly unpleasant circumstances. "It's uh, Greg Lestrade, can I speak to John, please?" It was a challenge sounding polite when he was this stressed, but he'd had practice from years of questioning grief-stricken witnesses.

"He's not here." Mary's voice had a hint of irritation in it.

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"He's not here, he was out all night, I'm not sure where he is." She didn't sound worried, more like angry, which Lestrade thought was a bit strange.

"Do you have any idea what he might be up to?" he asked as delicately as he could manage. He didn't like where this was going at all.

"He said an old friend had just come back into town and needed his help. He wouldn't tell me anything more than that. He was acting really odd, like there was something he wanted to tell me but he couldn't. Do you have any idea what it might have been?"

_I have an idea, all right. I have a very good idea, but it's not bloody possible, and if I told you, you'd know I'd gone completely insane. But I still want to believe I'm right…_

"Greg? Are you still there?" Mary asked. Lestrade wasn't sure how long he'd been silent for. "I said do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Not a clue," Lestrade said numbly, "Nice talking to you." He hung up without waiting for a reply.

_Fuck it, _he thought, _If I'm going crazy I may as well go all-out. _He dialed the number.

* * *

><p>"Will you please just eat something?"<p>

"Why are you so concerned about this? I told you I wasn't hungry." Sherlock made a face and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were in the back of an inconspicuous little café, Sherlock pointedly facing away from the door and keeping his head down. "I'm all right with a few people knowing I'm here," he'd explained, "but I don't want to attract unnecessary attention." His eyes were darting around the room frantically. He was starting to look like some sort of paranoid junkie.

John crossed his arms in frustration. "Sherlock, I could feel your bones sticking out last night…" he paused for a moment; his ears turning red with the thought of his intimate moment with Sherlock, and he hoped nobody around him had heard him say that. "You're thin as a rail," he continued "and you've just had a serious drug withdrawal." He dropped his voice to a whisper now. "I am not going to have you come back to life just to watch you kill yourself all over again."

Sherlock looked down shamefully. "All right," he finally conceded. "Just…toast or something will be fine." He took a gulp of his coffee and was silent for a while, looking intently at something at the other end of the cafe, and John took the opportunity to check his mobile to see what Lestrade had wanted. His brow crinkled in surprise at what he found there.

"Huh," he muttered quietly.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his mind returning to Earth.

"I've got six messages from Lestrade…" He opened the most recent and saw what the cause was. "Oh, that's just not fair," he said, feeling half pity for the poor detective inspector and half amusement at his misfortune.

"What isn't?" Sherlock replied, lost. John looked up at him with a smirk.

"You bastard," he laughed, "Why would you do that to the poor bloke?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. John's smile faded slightly, as he got the feeling something was wrong here.

"Well, he says he got a message from you. I mean, that's not very fair, you've talked to everyone else in person so far, but all he gets is a teasing little text, I mean, that's not…"

"I never sent Lestrade any message." Sherlock's tone was ominous. John nearly shivered. Something was wrong here…

"Then who…?"

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" Lestrade spoke uncertainly into the receiver, almost afraid to hear a dead man's voice. It was fortunate, then, that it was not Sherlock's voice he heard.<p>

"Detective Inspector!" said an unfamiliar female voice with delight. "How nice of you to call! I've been waiting to hear from you!"

"Who the hell is this? Do you think you're funny?"

"Oh yes, Detective, I think I'm rather hilarious. But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point? Driving me out of my mind?"

The voice laughed, a musical laugh, but a twisted one, like a beautiful melody being played on an extremely badly tuned piano. "No, no, no, Mr. Lestrade. The point is that I have the means at my disposal to completely destroy your life if you don't do exactly what I say. Now, where shall we begin?"


	12. Chapter 12: Clearing things up

**Long A/N: **Sorry again readers for the long gap. Lost interest for a bit, I'm afraid. Fortunately I went to Anime Boston and the flame of my fangirl spirit was rekindled.

Anyway, what I have to offer is not much in plot advancement. Instead I'm fixing up a few muddled plot points that it's entirely possible nobody noticed but me-nobody's criticized them or anything-but they were driving me crazy and this allows me to put them behind me and focus on story progression without having to do a bunch of edits. These tiny little plotholes were the things holding me back the most so hopefully something will really, properly _happen _now. Forgive a little retconning, please. I will have more soon. For reals this time.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood up without warning and rushed to the door. John looked bewilderedly from his phone to the door to the coffee on the table, sputtering helplessly. He had once grown used to Sherlock skipping out on dining bills when he'd suddenly been struck with an epiphany, but it had been a long time and it took him a moment to recover from the shock. With a few muttered curse words, he left what he estimated to be a sufficient payment in cash on the table and hurried to follow his companion, shoving some unfortunate young man leaving at the same time out of his way rudely. He then had to sprint quite a way to catch up to Sherlock.<p>

"What was that all about?" he panted as he reached the fast-walking detective and fell into stride beside him. When Sherlock didn't reply, he quickly got frustrated.

"Okay, stop." John halted on the spot, refusing to follow any longer. Sherlock walked on a few paces before he realized his short, sullen shadow was no longer behind him, and doubled back hurriedly.

"Problem?" he asked tersely, sidling up to John and leaning towards him conspiratorially.

"What are you not telling me? What exactly are you up to?" John demanded. Sherlock watched him uncomprehendingly, so John pulled him aside, out of the immediate eyes and ears of passerby, and continued.

"You've been acting strangely all the time. You keep changing your mind, contradicting yourself. Like making me help you sneak into the morgue and then just waltzing out, or whatever's going on right now with Lestrade and what you were saying just now about waiting for a move. I can't tell if you're keeping some sort of master plan from me or if you're just indecisive!"

At this, Sherlock glanced downwards with just a trace of sheepishness; just enough to give himself away. John stepped back, surprised. "Wait, is that it? Have you been acting all mysterious this whole time to cover for the fact that you actually have no idea what you're doing?" John laughed incredulously, convinced he'd just hit the mark perfectly.

Sherlock looked indignant, but after a handful of failed attempts at a snarky reply, he sighed and, looking around quickly as if someone might hear, he began his confession.

"Look," he began, "there is a method to what you perceive as madness. With regards to sneaking into the morgue, it was necessary for Molly's safety that I keep my return secret until I was certain she was free of any condemning evidence. Once I was sure of that, I was free to let people see me. In fact, I was hoping they would."

"Why?" John asked, not sure he followed.

"A grand, public announcement of my return is not for me, John. My 'plan' as you put it was to let myself be strategically sighted; let the news of my life spread as a rumor first. And it seems to be working; I've been rather poorly photographed by at least four different people since we started walking this morning. It should be all over the Internet by teatime."

"What would the point of that be?" John asked. Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration with John's lack of understanding and went on.

"It would give me time, John. I came back here on an impulse, out of concern for you." This didn't sound like another heartfelt confession of emotion, just a simple statement of his motivation. "I need time to integrate myself into my old life. I would let the people who mattered know I was here right away—I was going to speak with everyone yesterday, but my…" he coughed uncomfortably "…episode last night prevented it."

After a short pause, he went on. "I need time, John, to breathe. To evaluate my surroundings, my opponent. I was serious before about waiting for her next move. I've done what was asked of me. I've come back to London, back to life. Now it's her turn. And in the meantime, I can focus on what's really important…"

Here he stopped, and looked down as he reached out and took John's hand in his own. "…Like making things right with you," he finished. John nodded to show his understanding, and felt sorry for accusing Sherlock of not having a clue. Then he became keenly aware of their rather public location, and Sherlock's mention that they'd been photographed, and quickly shook his hand free of Sherlock's grasp. He began walking down the street again and motioned for Sherlock to follow him.

"Okay," he said, "That's all fine and good, but what about this…thing with Lestrade? Why is Adler pretending to be you? If it even is her…I mean, we don't know for sure, it could be someone else, right?"

"Nice to see you developing your own theories," Sherlock said absentmindedly, clearly returning to some other set of thoughts, and John couldn't tell with any certainty if he was being genuine or facetious. John assumed the latter and snapped back at him.

"My point is, Sherlock, it looks like this is the 'move' you were looking for. What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I thought perhaps my first course of action would be to engage in a thrilling chase after the man who's been following us for the past half hour or so."

"What?" John asked, left completely in the dust by this sudden leap.

"Sorry to spring this on you so suddenly." Sherlock apologized casually. "Get ready to run."


	13. Chapter 13: You're looking well

**A/N: **The dialogue in this was one of the most absurdly fun things to write ever. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

* * *

><p>Before John had the chance to formulate any sort of response, Sherlock grabbed his arm. He then turned on his heel and bolted in the opposite direction, dragging the hapless doctor down the pavement behind him.<p>

He saw their target-a figure in a long green coat only about a dozen yards behind them. Realizing they were on to him the stalker turned and ran back the other way in a flash. John lost sight of him amongst the crowd almost instantly, but it was clear from the haste with which Sherlock dragged him along by the wrist that he was still locked on target. A moment later he let go, but he kept the pace, kept the lead, dodging between pedestrians and rushing purposefully forward and John followed.

His surroundings blurred as he focused on nothing but Sherlock's back, not caring where they were going or who they were following, just cherishing the thrill of the chase. Blindly led to pursue an unknown party with a madman he'd only spent a few hours with-it was the first night they met all over again. John grinned as he dashed down a side street, across a road, and straight in front of oncoming vehicles, it didn't matter. This is how it used to be, he thought. This is how it's supposed to be. Just Sherlock and him chasing criminals through the streets.

Another turn, left, right, right again-John had no idea where they were going, and evidently neither did the one they were chasing, as Sherlock finally cornered him in an alleyway. At last, their target had come to a standstill with no place left to go. The figure turned, and now, with a clear, still view, John realized that the man they had been chasing all this time was not a man at all, but a woman. The long green coat fit loosely enough to hide her figure while she was in motion, and her hair and face were masked by a cap and sunglasses. But now that he saw her up-close and standing still, John realized it was in fact, a woman he'd been running after so enthusiastically. In fact, as she removed her glasses and he saw her face properly, he recognized exactly which woman.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock said with a cold smile.

"Mr. Holmes," she replied, locking eyes with him in an uncomfortably smoldering stare.

"...Doctor Watson," John contributed after a short silence. Sherlock broke off the sexual-tension-laden staring contest to turn and raise an eyebrow in a "what exactly is your problem?" sort of expression that John shot right back at him. He then shrugged and returned his attention to Irene.

"You're looking well," he said casually.

"You're not," she replied.

"Love the whole incognito look," Sherlock shot back, unfazed.

"Hate what you've done with your hair."

"Is this entirely necessary?" John snapped. He was not particularly interested in watching them flirt, or whatever this was. He wanted some answers.

"So rude, John," Irene said, pouting her lips, "I am trying to catch up with an old friend here." She turned back to Sherlock. "It's been, what, almost four years now?"

"Yes. How was Dubai, by the way?"

"Oh, it was dreadful." She pouted again. "You could have stayed a bit longer, you know. We could have had a romantic getaway."

"I couldn't take the time off," Sherlock replied apologetically.

"As I understand it, you've had quite a long holiday of late. You should have looked me up. It's no fun being dead by yourself."

"Something tells me you've spent very little time by yourself," Sherlock replied suggestively.

"Business has been good, I'm not ashamed to say," Irene replied with a naughty little grin.

"Could we please skip the small-talk?" John interrupted desperately. "What are you playing at? The letter and the text messages and the cryptic signals and all of that rubbish?"

Irene blinked in what he thought may have been genuine surprise. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Doctor Watson."

"Hah," John laughed sarcastically, "Right, Sherlock," he turned to face his friend, and forgot what he was saying when he caught sight of Sherlock's calculating expression.

"She's not our woman," he said quietly, clearly having just made one of his deductions.

"I'm not? That's disappointing."

"I caught sight of you very early on," Sherlock said. "Before we were even in the cafe. You don't know how to tail someone properly and it wasn't premeditated-you just happened to see us on the street and followed us out of mere curiosity and surprise."

"You sound disappointed," Irene smirked. "I'd think you'd be happy to know I'm not stalking you."

"But wait, there's more. You also had foreign currency in your wallet at the café, I saw. French, I believe? "

Irene shrugged. "I got off the plane from Versailles day before yesterday. What does it matter?"

"What are you doing in London?" he asked

"Business," Irene replied, managing to make the word sound extremely suggestive. "Not that it's any of yours."

"What?" John exclaimed. "No! You were here weeks ago, you were..."

Sherlock promptly interrupted him. "Give us a moment." He pulled John back a few steps.

"Sherlock, what is going on here? You said..." He meant to speak further, but Sherlock leaned down and murmured softly in his ear.

"It would seem I've miscalculated. Miss Adler has only been in the country perhaps twelve hours before me. It is highly unlikely she is our troublemaker."

John took a deep breath and tried to control his anger at being deceived. "Then who _are_ we dealing with?"

"I don't know yet, but I suspect the woman may have some relevant information."

He turned back to Irene, who was watching them talk with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised.

"Miss Adler...I don't think our meeting under these circumstances was coincidence, do you?" Irene shook her head apprehensively. "I, for one," Sherlock continued, his tone forceful and interrogative, "know for a fact that someone is manipulating me. If you know anything about that, then I recommend that you tell me."

"Watch your tone, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied darkly.

"I think what he means is," John piped up, not wanting anything to go badly, "This'll go a lot smoother if we work together."

Irene seemed to consider their proposal for a moment, and then she spoke carefully;

"Well, in the event that I was to divulge any of my secrets to you, it certainly wouldn't be here. Would you mind if we took this somewhere a little more private?" she stepped forward finally, until her face was inches from Sherlock's, and said playfully "Why don't you take me back to your place, Mr. Holmes?"


	14. Chapter 14: Blackmail, of course

**A/N: **I am proud to announce that I actually finalized a plot outline last night so from this point forward I actually know where everything I write is going, whereas in previous chapters, not so much. And I don't even need to edit the old chapters I actually made it all make sense. So yay.

Anywho short new chapter in which there is some plot development and I'm mean to Lestrade. I'm gonna be mean to Lestrade a LOT. Only because I love him. Also spot the vague Dr Who reference for fun. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean by that?" Lestrade asked cautiously. "Destroy my life?"<p>

"Blackmail, of course, Mr. Lestrade," the woman replied.

Lestrade gulped nervously. "I dunno what you're talking about," he began, but didn't get very far with that argument.

"A noble effort, but you can skip the bluffing. You've gotten desperate since you lost Sherlock Holmes, haven't you? You've resorted to some pretty nasty stuff to keep your arrest record up."

"I've never knowingly arrested an innocent man," Lestrade replied, and he spoke truly.

"Of course you haven't! Why, I'd never imply such a thing. But you haven't used entirely legal methods to catch the guilty, have you now? Bribing and protecting criminal informants...tampering with evidence and witness testimony...even brutalizing witnesses, I would have thought you above such a thing, Mr. Lestrade."

That last one got him. "That was one time," he snapped, and then realized too late he incriminated himself by saying it. He'd been looking for a kidnapping victim and resorted to beating the hell out of the criminal to get the victim's location. He wasn't proud of it, but time had been of the essence, and he no longer had Sherlock to find all the evidence from a shoeprint.

"That may be true, but it's still enough to cost your job, and maybe even earn you a little jailtime, I should think."

"You got evidence of any of this?" Lestrade challenged, unwilling to admit any more.

"I've got enough. I've destroyed the reputation of many a good man in the past, Mr. Lestrade, and you're not as much of a challenge as you may think."

_I should be, _Lestrade thought. _Look at me, used to be a great detective, now I'm confessing my own crimes. _He gave up. "Who are you?" he asked, "How do you know all this?"

"Do you really think I'm going to answer that?" the girl on the other end of the phone laughed. Lestrade realized it was rather a stupid question

"What do you want from me?" he asked instead, not wanting to dance around the topic any longer.

"I would like to hire you for a private investigation."

Lestrade paused, confused. "I'm not for hire..." he began.

"No, but you're the best London's got to offer nowadays."

"Really? Because it sounds to me like you're a pretty talented investigator yourself, Miss."

The girl laughed. "Oh, you're too kind, Mr. Lestrade. But I'm afraid I have some other affairs to attend to."

"What would I be investigating?" Lestrade asked with a hint of a sarcasm.

"A crime is going to take place today, Detective Inspector. And if you accept my mission, you will witness, investigate and solve this crime independently, outside of Scotland Yard. The police should not even be informed of the crime taking place until you're done."

Lestrade actually laughed at the complete absurdity of the request, wondering why he'd allowed himself to be intimidated by this lunatic. "And should I choose not to accept your little mission impossible? What then, eh?"

"Then I inform your superiors of all your little misdeeds on the job. Oh, and I forgot to mention before, your wife and colleagues will learn all about that sweet little thing from the morgue you've been spending so much time with. Can't imagine that'll be good for either of you."

_Molly. _The laughter he had found a moment ago vaporized immediately. He could refuse and risk his own career, but he couldn't put Molly's personal life in harm's way as well. That wasn't fair to her.

"How am I supposed to know what to do?" he asked gravely.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Lestrade, I know you're better than this. After all, we've already given you a couple of clues."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked. "Where are they?"

"Look to your left."

Lestrade didn't look. He didn't bother to question how she knew where he was standing, either, since obviously this was some sort of criminal mastermind. To his left was the "Sherlock wall", the collage of photographs, web pages, cryptic messages, the emergence of the "Believe in Holmes" movement.

_Sherlock,_ he thought. Somehow, somewhere, this might actually lead him to what really happened, or was happening, with Sherlock.

"I'll take the case."


	15. Chapter 15: More the merrier

**A/N: **Two in one night because it's just that sort of a night.

A new chapter: In which Irene is naughty, and John is made increasingly uncomfortable as the story goes on. Contains what may be the dirtiest couple of paragraphs I've ever written. I'm sure you'll delight in them.

* * *

><p>Irene wrinkled her nose in disdain at the site of 221B Baker Street. The last time she'd been there, the flat had been decked out in Christmas decorations and had possessed a certain welcoming, warm tone to it. Now it rather looked as though a bomb had gone off.<p>

"My god," she exclaimed, taken aback, "have you been setting off explosives or something?" Her tone lacked her usual grace and tact, but she was so appalled at the state of her surroundings that restraint failed her entirely.

"Sorry..." John murmured, and began making a feeble effort to clean up.

"No, I'm sorry," Irene remembered her manners, "That was rude of me." She overcame her initial disgust and made a quick evaluation of the room. Something unpleasant had happened there the previous night. Adding Sherlock's appearance and what little she'd overheard while following them, she had narrowed it down to a small list of possibilities, all involving some kind of mental breakdown.

"Well, you're here," Sherlock said expectantly. "Nice, quiet environment where nobody will be listening in, seeing as everyone of note believes the former inhabitants are either dead or residing elsewhere. Now I believe there was something you wanted to tell us?"

Irene actually thought about simply cooperating for a moment, but decided to stall once again for the sheer fun of playing head games with the boys. "I'm not going to tell you anything more until you've cleaned yourself up a bit. Frankly, Mr. Holmes, you smell of sick, sweat, and I don't even know what else, and you look as though you've contracted some sort of rotting disease."

John chuckled, then realized it was inappropriate and pretended as though he hadn't. "She's probably right, Sherlock" he said seriously, "Best you clean up a bit. After all, you've had..." he glanced at Irene, and seemed to reconsider whatever he was saying, "a rough night. I think there's a box upstairs with some of your old clothes. They're a bit dusty, but they're probably better than what you've got.

Sherlock scowled like a small child being told to eat his vegetables, but after the two of them stared him down, he sighed and gave up. "Well, if it's so terribly important that I look presentable", he said with sarcasm heavier than a lead weight, "I suppose I'll go freshen up." He stalked off melodramatically. "Make sure she doesn't try anything, John," he called as he left the room.

"I'm shocked you would think such a thing of me!" Irene called after him in a mock-hurt voice.

Irene then experienced the rather novel sensation of an awkward pause, as John pursed his lips and avoided her gaze. The uncomfortable silence was a rare and mysterious creature to her, and she took a moment to appreciate it. She took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair; beneath it she wore a button-down blouse and a pair of dress pants, and deciding she looked too boyish, pulled the pin from her hair and allowed her long dark locks to fall over her shoulders. She felt more powerful when she looked more feminine. Then she sat in an armchair across from John, and after staring at him long enough to make him uncomfortable, broke the silence.

"Well, since we're just waiting here for Sherlock, how about we talk about him behind his back?" she suggested calmly to John.

"What?" John replied, bewildered.

"Oh, come on," Irene replied, putting on her best impersonation of a gossiping school girl, "I know how you feel about him. I saw you holding hands and everything."

"Excuse me, but how old are you?" John asked, with that short fake laugh preceding the angry comeback, a combination she had seen him use several times before.

"You're right, that was immature. I'm sorry," she replied, backing off and holding her hands up defensively. That didn't mean she was any less curious, of course. The relationship between these two men had fascinated her since the day she met them.

"There is something different between you two, though, isn't there?" she asked, more serious this time. "And don't tell me I'm wrong," she added, foreseeing his denial, "because I can tell."

"You were only following us for a short while..." John began to protest, flustered.

"And for me, that's enough."

Irene had the ability to read people, to understand them, just like Sherlock, only she was far more specialized in her use of that talent. She was capable of making just as many deductions about any given aspect of someone's life, but she always focused on sex first and foremost. After all, it was how she made her way in the world, and so it was the most practical application of her talent. Women were a bit more challenging than men, which was of course why she generally tended to prefer them, but really, she could tell "what someone liked" from very little information. She had near-perfect "gaydar," as much as she disliked the term, and she could spot a pervert a mile away.

And so when she'd come across Sherlock Holmes, of course she'd been fascinated, because she couldn't tell what he liked. Through everything that had happened, she left in the end never really knowing for sure how he felt about her or what had been going on in his head. She'd fallen for the mystery of him completely, and while she now considered herself to be over her infatuation with him, his hidden desires were still an intriguing subject to her.

And then there had been John. John was not the enigma that Sherlock was, had not so utterly escaped her understanding, but he had still puzzled her. Such a strong, passionate display of concern for Sherlock, and an obvious jealousy of his relationship with her, and yet he so persistently denied anything romantic or sexual about his feelings for the other man. He was a piece of work, to be certain.

John coughed slightly. "Look, what's between…Me and Sherlock right now, it's…it's complicated, all right?" He hung his head and suddenly looked very downtrodden, and Irene felt a strange jolt of sympathy for him.

"It doesn't seem very complicated to me," she replied. He glanced up at her in surprise and she went on. "Oh, come on, it's obvious you've been in love with him for ages. I told you I could see it years ago, remember?" His ears turned red, and she knew he was flashing back to that confrontation at the power station where he had so adamantly, lovingly defended Sherlock and then rather pathetically insisted on his heterosexuality. "I know a man in denial when I see one John." When he didn't make any argument, she continued to analyze aloud the change in their relationship. "You've always loved him, but it's different now, isn't it?" Her eyes narrowed. "After all this time without him, suddenly you got him back, and he was really there, in the flesh…" She smiled deviously "It got…_physical._"

"Are you jealous?" John replied, looking up at her calmly.

Irene blinked in delightful shock. She'd been expecting further discomfort and denial. Instead, John gazed back at her with one eyebrow calmly raised and just a hint of a mischievous smirk as he confirmed her theory in a carefully indirect reply.

"John Watson, I'm surprised at you!" she said with a smile, feeling almost proud of him. "And no, of course I'm not jealous," she added as an afterthought.

"Really?" John replied, maintaining his slightly suggestive expression. "I was led to believe you fancied Sherlock yourself."

Irene was slightly embarrassed now, both because he had caught her so off guard and because he knew she had feelings for Sherlock. She took her revenge cautiously. "Well, yes," she admitted, careful not to show that he'd flummoxed her. "But that's alright…" she stood up and walked over to his chair, then leaned over him. She slid one knee between his, arched her back so he was eye-level with her chest, then stroked his very puzzled face with one hand, turning it upwards to look her in the eyes. "After all, you're a handsome man," she said, lowering her face so that her lips were almost touching his. He seemed to be frozen in place. "I wouldn't mind sharing him with you."

All the blood had drained from John's face, and as she could feel where it relocated to, she knew she had won this little game. And while her remark was meant simply to tease the poor man, she found herself giving the notion some actual consideration as she backed off and returned to her chair.

John made a few fumbling attempts at beginning a sentence, and was thankfully saved by Sherlock rejoining them, in the process of buttoning up a slightly musty suit jacket.

"Am I acceptable?" he said, spreading his arms with overwhelmingly spiteful sarcasm.

"You'll do for now," Irene replied, looking him over thoughtfully, "though you really should do something about the hair as soon as you can, it looks dreadful."

"Yes, well, you'll have to forgive me if a trip to the salon isn't precisely at the top of my list of priorities for the moment," Sherlock replied nastily. He slumped lazily against a wall and she couldn't help but notice how very thin he had gotten. "Now, can we at last get to the point? Why are you in London, now of all times?"

Irene sighed. She'd put this off long enough, she supposed, it was time to start cooperating. "As a matter of fact, it actually has to do with you."

"I thought so," he replied with a thoughtful smile. "Someone is trying to bring us together."

"Yes, from what you said before I gather that's the case. I was hired, if you must know."

"To do what?" John asked. She needed only to cast him a meaningful glance for him to realize what a remarkably stupid question that was. "Right," he said quietly, looking ashamed.

Irene cleared her throat delicately and went on. "I was approached by a woman who wanted to hire me for a session with some very specific requests." She rarely disclosed much information about her clients, but this was an unusual situation. "If I have to be honest, I found it a bit…alarming. For one thing, she knew my real name. I haven't used the name "Irene Adler" professionally since the last time I saw you."

"I'm sorry," John interjected, "But I don't understand, how does that have to do with Sherlock?" he looked terribly confused.

"Well," Irene began, and to her own horror suddenly felt her face turning red. _My god, _she thought, _I'm actually embarrassed to say it to his face. _"The, ah, the specific requests that I mentioned were, uh…" _I'm stuttering. I've never stuttered in my life. This is ridiculous. _"She wanted me too…dressuplikesherlockholmes." She said it as fast as she could and then inhaled deeply, trying to regain her composure. "The coat, the scarf, the deerstalker hat…"

"Why would _anyone_…" John began, sputtering helplessly. To her surprise, Sherlock reacted visibly as well, grimacing obviously, though he clearly understood better than John.

"Obviously it wasn't a real fetish or desire, John," Irene said, rolling her eyes, though she could understand where the doctor's disgust was coming from. "It was her way of telling me what this was really about. It's not a real client at all. This was somebody saying 'we know about you, we know about him, and if you don't do what we want you'll be in trouble.' That's all."

"Still, it's sick." John replied.

"Nobody's arguing with you, John." Sherlock replied, his voice still laced with disgust.

"Anyway, I knew it was probably a trap, but I couldn't think what else to do, so here I am. What now?" Irene asked, trying to progress through this uncomfortable moment.

"Well," Sherlock stood up straight and suddenly went into thinking mode. "We know some person or persons have for whatever reasoned summoned both of us out of hiding in a threatening and cryptic manner. It is therefore a logical assumption that we have both been approached by the same party, and they most likely expect us to meet and collaborate."

"Are these probably the same people who sent Lestrade that strange text message?" John piped up.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, and pointed at John enthusiastically. "Very good. Now, it is quite obvious that we are all being manipulated. However, we have little in the way of information or resources to investigate further. How would you suggest we proceed, Miss Adler?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, I've never broken a commitment to a client before," she replied mischievously. The best plan, of course, was to play right into their hands until they had something. "I'd hate to spoil my record. Why don't you boys come along? The more the merrier, right John?" She cast him a truly evil smile, to which he responded with a look of horror.

Sherlock just looked confused.


End file.
